Tupperware Poems

There’s a bit of an “in” joke here on the Tupperware. The woman I was dating at the time had held an adult toy party, but several of her friends were afraid to admit to their partners where they’d gone, and told their partners they’d gone to a Tupperwear party instead. After I heard that story, Tupperwear became a coded word for a sex toy…it also made for a work-safe way to send risque poems that would just seem sweet (but slightly puzzling) to anyone looking over her shoulder.

The image of reading poetry to a baby long after he’s fallen asleep was a key metaphor in a novel of mine; I swiped it for the Haiku since it also seemed appropriate.

I have only occasionally written poetry for people I’m in relationships with, and it’s as likely to be silly and whimsical as serious. In this case, it was some of both.

 

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12-19
lazy, wet snowfall,
frosted branches, icicles:
shall we stay in bed?

late night warm bottle
baby held close, crying stopped
you’re typing my name

hot chocolate mug
held close, blanket on lap, while
you lean against me

reading poetry to
a baby, long after he’s
asleep in his crib

my lips touch your ear
my arm wraps around your waist
cupping your cold hands

12-20
sun on melting snow
reflects on ice-slick branches
will you walk with me?

tupperware again
holds leftover memories
I wish you were here

I daydream while I
held a piece of tupperware
that your hand touched me

pleasures stored away
in tupperware for the day
come out at nightfall

When tupperware fails in the night,
When fingers are cold and alone
And there’s no one who thinks of your plight
Since you seem happy all on your own-
Then you creep down the stairs like a ghost
Or a ferret caught far from its hole,
Past the couch to the dining room spot
Where the batteries sit in their bowl
Then quickly you empty the old
And feel new ones click into place
Press the knob; soon the feeling takes hold
And a smile slowly crosses your face.
How else would you deal with your plight,
When tupperware fails in the night?

Copyright © 2004 by Leigh Grossman