Flummydiddle

noun, colloquial, a thing viewed as trivial,
nonsensical or silly—ladies’ fancy hats,
lacy hankies, velvet jackets, “Coral Gleam”
lipstick, diamond hairpins, sequined tube tops—
belonging entirely to us ladies—few men admire
flummydiddles, and when they do, it’s considered
appropriate to call them names, beat them, ride them
out of town on a Maypole—flummy is perhaps derived
from flummery, noun, a soft jelly or porridge,
or any of several sweet desserts—this may be,
in part, what gives flummydiddle its gender
specificity, as in how all women can be described
as crumpets, morsels, strudels, or sweet pieces
of pie, except for those of us who can’t, and there
are other words for those—see softball coach, see
librarian—and diddle, verb, colloquial, meaning
to fuck, because men who despise flummydiddles—
which is most men, apart from the tarred and feathered
ones—also want to fuck flummydiddles—they want
to fuck our doilies and our fur slippers and our
feather boas, they want to fuck our lipsticked parts—
evident in that they also want to give us flummydiddles,
give flummydiddles to us good—see hanky-panky,
see muff dive, see pearl necklace

Fetish: An Invocation

I.

A day in heels is nothing for daughters of Zeus,
their constant dancing, barefoot over stones
and sand, soles bruised, torn, pounding dirt
from Milan and Paris all the way to Olympus,
breaking only for Clio and Euterpe to do a little
window shopping. Or to bathe in the Horse Spring,

Thalia and Melpomene splashing while Terpsichore
works on her tan. Remember them and their throbbing
split feet next time you complain your six-inch stilettos
kill. Hesiod had them unshod, inspiration vigorous but
soft. So Erato and Polyhymnia and Urania soak, exfoliate
with pumice stones, with sugar scrubs. Calliope slathers

on lotion. Ask yourself, who authors? Or don’t. By law
they’re fair game, just start and finish calling their names.
Take their plump corpses, carve a canon: tender skin…silken
earlobes…delicate toes…pink ankles…toned leg, calf to thigh…
amorous curved lips…weighty breasts…thin fingertips…muscled
stump of a once-skilled tongue

II.

Hesiod lingered over petalsoft feet. Obsessed over each toe.
So you know that if he’d ever seen a pair of Louboutins he’d
be quick to strap them on his muses—stilettos, at least five inches,
torture, but those lipstick-red soles “give women raging orgasms”
well worth a few blisters and pricks. He’d be quick to condemn
vain frivolity, drooling for more. Clio in caged ankle boots and
Euterpe in bow-topped slingbacks. For Thalia, the flannel espadrilles.
Crisscross slides…yes…Melpomene…Terpsichore…yes…studded
fishnet peep toes. Naked Erato in leopard-print lace ups. Polyhymnia
and Urania matching, in Oxford booties with arch-bearing cutouts.
Most important Calliope, the finale, winklepickers topped
with over-knee barbed wire. The right shoes could’ve hourglassed
them, lifted asses, lengthened thighs, thrust breasts forward.
No choice but to dance burlesque. Then, how they’d travesty
Homer and Milton: Helen in corset and fishnet, Eve in open-toed
fuck-me pumps. How just a few thousand dollars in shoes could have
changed everything.