Being told you can’t have sex

            after sixty is like when a poet of a certain
age is told they shouldn't expect to have work
       picked up by the hottest magazines or
journals, or land in those Best of...
            lists. My muscles are fine, 
thank you. I appreciate both the power
       of restraint and the joy of 
spontaneity, the frisson of a seductive
            opening (perhaps like the title  
of this poem). Once, I entered an epic-
       poem writing competition, mostly
from irritation; some male poets I knew 
            were going on and on about how
it was all a matter of length and 
       endurance. Really. I scoffed. I could  
tell you about endurance, and about how sexy
            is perhaps one of the most 
misunderstood of qualities we like to lob
       around in this late-twenty-first-
century-nearing-apocalypse period. I've heard
             that Barrel Woman is one variation of
the carved Barrel Man souvenir sold to tourists
       in the Cordillera: instead of a phallus, 
breasts spring out to titillate. Scholars say this 
             is really a product of colonization, 
since indigenous sensibility saw no shame in going 
       around clad only in loincloths and woven 
skirts. Back in the nineteenth century, we 
              were seen only as dark and exotic.
From there, connect the dots. How many times  
       have we walked unblinking past catcalls and  
Hey, ma-GAN-da ka (accent totally on the wrong 
               syllable)? In 1565, Spanish explorers  
thought Syquijor island was on fire; it was the light
        from clouds of fireflies in the molave 
trees. It's said the slightest look or brush 
               of a hand while walking in the town
could mean hex or enchantment. That's sexy.