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The Garden of Human Delights
Not that I ogle Rubens’ nudes any more
than the next guy, but nudity in oil paintings
really shows us what we gave up when
we closed the gate on Eden, and put on
clothes. Everyone has a recurring dream
about being naked and embarrassed at work.
The Pope is no different. The only exceptions
are blissed-out nudists playing volleyball
who would not recognize a crucifixion
from a church lady driving nine-inch nails
through their limbs with disapproving eyes.
In the 70’s, people got naked in musicals,
and it changed nothing. I look at some
priests, and wonder if they will implode
from human longing. Sex should be viewed
less as a dirty little business of feathered boas
and flavoured oils, and more a communiqué,
a telegram sent between distant galaxies.
The message: I know you. I trust you.
Let’s be more to each other than a drive-by
transaction of spermatozoa. At least tonight.
We can decide in the morning if a lifetime
of snuggling, arguing over who washed
the dishes last, is for us. My girlfriend
tells me I need to write more poems
about sex, but the Angel of Suffering
keeps telling me I’ll go blind from all
the innuendo and erections. Maybe
there is a garden of human delights
for sale down the street. Maybe we can
match the asking price if we combine
our incomes. Maybe we can live there.
Maybe be happy. Despite the thorns.
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Chris Banks is an award-winning, Pushcart-nominated Canadian poet and author of seven collections of poems, most recently Alternator (forthcoming, Nightwood Editions, Fall 2023). His first full-length collection, Bonfires, was awarded the Jack Chalmers Award for poetry by the Canadian Authors’ Association in 2004. Bonfires was also a finalist for the Gerald Lampert Award for best first book of poetry in Canada. His poetry has appeared in The New Quarterly, Arc Magazine, The Antigonish Review, Event, The Malahat Review, The Walrus, American Poetry Journal, The Glacier, and Prism International, among other publications. He lives with dual disorders—chronic major depression and generalized anxiety disorder—and writes in Kitchener, Ontario.
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Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640), Leda and the Swan
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Author: Terence Winch
