For women like me, who have no sense
of balance, who are helpless
as bound birds when shoved out
on the ice – there is an ancient sport
for us, a tongue or finger skating
round the small pink rink
we found when we were two,
or three, in bathtubs or on playgrounds.
How could flashing blades
outrace the hummingbird flight
of a fingertip? How could
ice, shaved blank by a Zamboni,
respond like blood-flushed tissue
drenched by love?
Author: Spambellina
Inspiration: Email entitled “Ice-skate clitoris,” received from Walters, January 14 2007.
Potted Poetry Products 
This is hilarious.
That’s amazing.
Influenced by spam, perhaps, but a damned good poem nonetheless.