People always say that size matters.

But these days, it’s hard to know what’s true.
So I studied the subject for myself—to see
if the reports I’d heard were just fake news.

Science says Frenchmen have the largest members.
Monsieur Bedel indeed insisted
his was best and that I kiss it! kiss it!
A frog with frantic aim, he lashed about:

a series of this and that—quick in, quicker out.

As if to whip a fly from my cervix,
he jerked his darting la queue faster than a blink.

(Note to self: Get to know a man before you drink.)

Eduardo the Italian, who experts said
should’ve measured second, was hung
like Michelangelo’s David but knew exactly what to do.

While Keith the poet was Brobdingnagian
and left me sorely bruised. He’d chant:

half a league, half a league, half a league onward,

and I’d be tempted to salute.

No, the best lay of my days complained of Peyronie’s disease
and would bloom in season like a Weeping Willow, which just goes to show—

it’s not the size of the bedpost that matters but the fluff of the pillow.

 

Marissa Glover teaches and writes in central Florida and shares her thoughts more than necessary, which she considers a form of charitable giving. If it counted as a tax deduction, she’d be rich. Her work has appeared in various places including The Opiate and Gyroscope Review and on her parents’ refrigerator.