Sex Ed

Anna Rose Welch

 

The book says your hips are widening like the sides of a canoe, your legs long like oars.

The uterus, ovaries, and breasts are softening to separate you from men,

but you still want to know what his parts can do to yours.

There’s an illustration: cartoons burrowing beneath a hill of blankets,

bodies invisible, as if wanting each other has left them

indistinct — just a smile and four closed eyes. A man on top. And the orgasm —

a word you say only to yourself in the dark —

your mouth a sharp O, final consonants simmering on the tongue.

A boy you like someday will call it a prize. Picture a dime floating inside her, he’ll say;

You have to shake her to find it. The rougher the better, he’ll say.

That night before bed, you’ll fling three dimes out the window

to hear them discover ground, then touch yourself where women like it

until you cry out because nothing worthy is chiming inside you.

 

// fourth draft

The book says your hips will widen like the sides of a canoe, your legs long like oars.

The uterus, ovaries, and breasts are soft to separate you from men.

But you want to know what his parts will do to yours.

There’s an illustration of a man and woman: cartoons below a hill of blankets,

bodies invisible, as if wanting each other leaves them indistinct.

Sex: a smile and four closed eyes. A man on top. And the orgasm —

a word you say only to yourself in the dark — it’s important:

your mouth becomes a sharp O; the final consonants simmer on the tongue.

A boy you like once called it a prize. Picture a dime floating inside her, he said;

You have to shake her to find it, he said. The rougher the better.

That night before bed, you flung three dimes out the window to hear them discover ground,

then touched yourself where the book said women like to be touched—

softly first, then harder and harder still until you cried out

because nothing worthy was chiming inside you.

// third draft

The book says your hips will widen like the sides of a canoe,

your legs long like oars. The uterus, ovaries, and breasts

are soft, separate you from men. But you want to know

what his parts could do to yours. There’s an illustration:

a man and woman cartoons below a hill of blankets,

bodies invisible, as if wanting each other left them indistinct.

Sex: a smile and wide-open eyes. A man on top. And the orgasm —

a word you say only to yourself in the dark — it’s important

Your mouth becomes a sharp O; the final consonants

simmer on the tongue. A boy you like once called it a prize.

Picture a dime floating inside her, he said; You have to shake her to find it,

he said. The rougher the better. That night before bed,

you flung three dimes out the window to hear them discover ground

then touched yourself where the book said women like to be touched—

softly first, then harder and harder still until you cried out

because nothing worthy chimed inside you.

 

// first draft

The first time my parents told me about sex, they tucked me in, made the blankets a straightjacket around my arms, and gave me a book that said my hips would widen like the sides of a canoe and my legs would grow long like oars. They said I should read about the uterus, ovaries, and breasts—those soft, round things that kept me separate from men. But I wanted to know what his parts could do to mine.  Turning to chapter four, I found an illustration: a man and woman—cartoons in a bed. Under a hill of blankets, their bodies were invisible, as if wanting each other left them indistinct. Sex was just a smile and wide-open eyes. A man on top. And the orgasm—a word I’d say only to myself in the dark—I knew it was important from the way my mouth became a sharp O; how my tongue simmered on the final consonants. In sex-ed, I heard a boy call it a prize. Picture a dime floating inside her, he said; You have to shake her to find it, he said. The rougher the better. That night before bed, I flung three dimes out my window to hear them discover ground. Then I touched myself where the book said women like to be touched—softly first, then harder until my skin was raw—until I cried out because nothing worthy chimed inside me.

Anna's Commentary

I wrote the first draft of Sex Ed during my second year of graduate school. At the time, I was stuck in the realm of prose. For years, I’d struggled to write a prose poem, and by the time I was graduating, it was the only thing I could write. The draft came out pretty much in one fell swoop, and it stayed a prose poem until very recently. 

In my newest work, I’ve developed an obsession for the use of second person. I like the discomfort it can cause when forcing the reader into the narrator’s position. But I also like the use of “you” because it can be the narrator addressing herself and forcing herself to confront what is too painful to address or is unnoticeable/overlooked when stuck within a more emotional, first person perspective. When revisiting the narrator in this poem, I felt the first person “I” was much too singular for a topic that everyone has been introduced to when growing up. 

I’ve also found myself gravitating towards shorter, more clipped sentences. I became less attached to the prose form for this poem. After all, the poem fixates on the dissolution of the self through sex. Prose felt much too contained for a poem ending with a symbolic shattering. I found that double-spacing the poem also made the topic colder and more clinical, which contributed to the overall loss of innocence here and challenged the romanticized notions of sex we are so often taught about or imagine when growing up.  

Anna Rose Welch is a violinist and editor in Erie, PA. She holds an MFA in poetry from Bowling Green State University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Best New Poets 2014, The Kenyon Review Online, Guernica, Barrow Street, Crab Orchard Review, The Paris-American, and elsewhere.