Storm Light

The morning started with a strange pink haze…and a sense of lighter air, then exploded with torrential rain, thunder and lightning. The dogs and I scurried into shelter and then watched our beach through rain-soaked windows.

Stormy day…and too restless to read, I decide to focus on eliminating some of the sand brought in to our coastal cottage by my bare feet and puppy paws. But, English Lit student that I am, the activity reminds me of a brilliant poem by Susan Estabrook that I will share. Caution–I am not responsible for any metaphors you may imagine 🙂

Susan Estabrook

AN AFTERNOON WITH HOOVER

I take him out of the closet because it’s time.

I lug him across the floor;

his old parts creak.

If he could just think, it’d be,

“I’m too old to do this every week.”

He’s lucky that’s all I demand.

So I drag him to the middle of the room

and uncoil his cord,

gently unknot the cable from

the hooks on his shaft.

I locate the open receptacle on the wall

and insert his pronged end;

he turns on quite easily.

And then we begin.

My hand guides him back and forth,

back and forth,

across the dirty carpet,

sucking up and rejuvenating,

making new.

I find comfort in

the noise he makes—

a rasping, chortling, not-quite hum

as he lifts and beats

at the same time.

Back and forth,

back and forth,

inside the table legs

outside the couch

exploring under the chest

rolling over dust devils

probing unseen reaches,

humming, rasping.

My hand tires, as his old moves

aren’t what they used to be.

So my body gets into it.

My thigh pushes him forward,

his handle dug deep in my pelvis

sweat dripping between my breasts

from the effort.

We retreat to the bedroom,

repeating the action.

Back and forth,

in and out,

over and under.

And then it’s time for more.

I bring him upright and

he shudders.

I pinch his bag,

testing its capacity,

and he shudders again, as if

knowing what’s coming.

I go to the closet and bring out

the long, snaky, ribbed hose

which extends his reach as far

as my needs require.

My fingers probe the roundness as I

guide the tapered end

to the receiving mouth on the body

where it fits so perfectly.

He turns on again now

we reach a new height,

and strive for more.

I twist him and pull,

stretching him to his ultimate,

pressing the issue and not letting

him rest, allowing no leeway in the

satisfaction I must receive.

Pulling and pushing, my hands,

my thighs, my pelvis

interacting,

his hose in the mouth

where it sucks up whatever

is in the way.

Reaching, always reaching

nearing completion

until finally,

finally

we’re finished.

It’s over.

He chugs his last and turns off,

sitting idle

spent and smoking.

After a minute, I remove his prong

from the open receptacle,

wrap the cord around his shaft, and

put him back in the closet, where he’ll stay

until I need him again.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you!