The James Bond Movie

The popcorn is greasy, and I forgot to bring a Kleenex.   
A pill that’s a bomb inside the stomach of a man inside

The Embassy blows up. Eructations of flame, luxurious   
cauliflowers giganticize into motion. The entire 29-ft.

screen is orange, is crackling flesh and brick bursting,   
blackening, smithereened. I unwrap a Dentyne and, while

jouncing my teeth in rubber tongue-smarting clove, try   
with the 2-inch-wide paper to blot butter off my fingers.

A bubble-bath, room-sized, in which 14 girls, delectable   
and sexless, twist-topped Creamy Freezes (their blond,

red, brown, pinkish, lavendar or silver wiglets all   
screwed that high, and varnished), scrub-tickle a lone

male, whose chest has just the right amount and distribu-
tion of curly hair. He’s nervously pretending to defend

his modesty. His crotch, below the waterline, is also
below the frame—but unsubmerged all 28 slick foamy boobs.

Their makeup fails to let the girls look naked. Caterpil-
lar lashes, black and thick, lush lips glossed pink like

the gum I pop and chew, contact lenses on the eyes that are   
mostly blue, they’re nose-perfect replicas of each other.

I’ve got most of the grease off and onto this little square   
of paper. I’m folding it now, making creases with my nails.

May Swenson, “The James Bond Movie” from New and Selected Things Taking Place (Boston: Atlantic/Little Brown, 1978). Copyright © 1978 by May Swenson. Reprinted with the permission of The Literary Estate of May Swenson.
Source: New and Selected Things Taking Place (Little Brown and Company, 1978)
More Poems by May Swenson