they were mallards

you just got fucked by a sexy
big-dicked 18-yr-old boy and you
really REALLY liked it. you had
a fantastic time, even though
you're still feeling a little sore
and rubbed-raw. now, you're
writing a poem about getting fucked by
that sexy big-dicked 18-yr-old boy.
but, after just a
couple lines, you're deciding maybe
to write the poem about something
else: something less, well, you
know, revealing. maybe you'll
write the poem about watching
ducks swim at the pond where
he picked you up and took
you home and gave you the best
fucking of yer life.
so you write the poem about the pond and
about the ducks.  there
were water lilies. and there was a
momma duck, with about a dozen
fuzzy ducklings. they were
cute. just as cute as
that big-dicked sexy smoldering
boy, but in a different kind of way,
of course, but you don't
elaborate, or mention
the boy, or the fucking.
you stop at the ducks.
besides, in reality, you didn't get fucked
by any 18-yr-old boy.  in fact,
you didn't get fucked at all.
so, in your poem, you just tell the
truth.  you respect your
readers, and while you like art and
would do almost anything to make some,
you love your readers, and would
never EVER tell them a lie.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem also appears in my book Riot Act, published by Chiron Review Press in 2010. The poem was first published in Dispatch #1, January 2006.)