Because it’s not about toasters:
My Ophthalmologist’s Ear
Not the sticking-out type, nice
and relaxed, close to his head
limply hanging there
you know: clitoral
labial, vulvar.
His brown hair
scruffs the tip of each one
a downy freckled bunny.
Look straight ahead,
he says, then glides
his rolling chair
side to side.
Ear. Ear. Ear. Ear.
– photo by mary macgowan. a previous version of this poem, by mary macgowan, published in The South Carolina Review, Vol 34, #1, Fall 2001
Songs for the Pure of Heart 