Sex+: Two Poems by Carolene Kurien

Lemon Cake

Remember when a sugar drizzle
was just a sugar drizzle and not a reminder 
of cum? I never know what to do sometimes,
when I’m face down on the pillow thinking
about airplanes and not really feeling anything 
except a paper towel wiping my back, eventually. 
I’m just joking guys, I don’t know what sex is, 
I’ve never heard about it before. Is it the mousse 
melting slowly on my tongue, the waiter’s betraying 
glance? Feelings and sensations have always
eluded me—let’s all get matching lobotomies 
and sit in a blank forever. Who would I be
without all the extra brain stuff? A car parked 
on the side of the road, waiting for any body to fill 
its empty. I like filling my empty with anything 
that’ll fit. You want woman? I’ll give it to you. 
I’ll be nice and gentle. I’ll be soft in the morning, 
like lemon cake.

Bedroom Theory

To moan is to abandon power. 
If you agree with this please touch me.
I am not your regular kind of party.
My mouth a mollusk below your boxers.
Across the window two people embrace.
I don’t feel good about it.
They say of my hair: night broke upon it. 
Your legs bathed in dark.
By now my tongue has given up. 
Every word’s another word I’m unable to say.

About Carolene Kurien

Carolene Kurien is a Malayali-American poet from South Florida and a 2024 MacDowell Fellow. She received her MFA from the University of Miami, where she was a James Michener Fellow. A Tin House alum, her poems have been published or are forthcoming in Salt Hill, Redivider, Bennington Review, BOOTH, Bellevue Literary Review, and elsewhere. You can view her work at carolenekurien.com.