Wesley Biddy

The pictures on restroom signs always amuse me:
the man standing boldly naked, legs wide apart
and pointing up together at his crotch
as if to say, This is where everything important is.
Look here, and the woman in a dress, legs together
as if to say, Everything worth knowing is worth keeping secret.
The difference is important, of course
a holdover from the old double standard on sex
illustrating the attitude we were supposed to take,
it's politically incorrect now
but still keeps us from going in the wrong door,
which I did once in a small-town diner when I was 13
and the Ladies sign was faded.
She must not have noticed that the latch was broken,
and for a couple of seconds the girl on the toilet,
a little under 20, a little overweight
didn't notice me, either; didn't open her eyes
or stop her fingers from reading the flesh's Braille
where God forgot to sew her up
between legs that were plump poles of shaven meat.
Frozen to the spot with awe,
listening to her murmur aloud what was printed there
mmms and drawn-out ohh's
I marveled at the way her fingertips traced the text,
reading it like a topographical map of a place
I had heard of but could scarcely believe existed.
But then the girl opened her eyes, swung them at me,
and she stood up stood up, if you can believe that
to curse me three steps backwards so that
in the moment before I slammed the door between us
I saw her panties collapse from her knees
to make her as boldly naked, legs wide apart
as the man on the door I had meant to shake hands with.
This is where everything important is. Look here.
My older cousin, waiting for me at the table,
guffawed when I came back
with weak knees and the story.
What? You didn't know girls did it, too?
But I couldn't say anything else; just sat there,
unable to think of anything except that
I had forgotten to use the restroom,
and that, really,
nothing knowing is worth keeping secret.