In several species of lizards . . . only females exist.
– Science World.
I get so lonely out here on the chaparral, darting beneath moon and mesquite.
Any day now I expect to go extinct.
I don’t date much. I’m terrified of sling-shots and Natural History museums. My family’s poor as a footprint, matrilineal trailer-trash all the way back to Texas dirt.
I’m an interspecies love-child. Does this make me hot stuff?
If I were a superhero, I’d be Liza, the Bisexual Lizard Brain.
I’m a head-swiveler, an air-sniffer, a tongue-flicker, a single parent of a single parent of a single parent.
Imagine me in nothing but granular scales and stippled sunlight, stretched out on a slab of warm granite.
Unisexual doesn’t mean courtship rituals don’t turn a girl on.
My ideal mate is a hyperactive five-inch dinosaur on dainty hind legs. Think: gender bender baby.
The quickest way to my heart is a pulse. The quickest way to my bed is on your sturdy tetrapods.
It’s Sunday morning and my blood’s heating up fast. Sister Lagaritja, I don’t need you but I want you
to be my parthenogenic lover, my next best guy. If your DNA’s identical to mine I’d love to scoot over the garden wall with you. What I mean is, I’d love to bask on your brick.
Patricia Young’s 10th book of poetry is An Autoerotic History of Swings.
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