Trivial Pursuit

Forty-two percent of American women
belch on command. If you're like me
and wonder who's doing the commanding
and to what strange end this
gastrointestinal cabal is committed,
then come sit beside me
and be my friend. I swear
I won't yammer long, it will be painless,
even charming, when I speak
of joy. There will be no reason
for the capillaries in your face
to flood with shame.
Because scientists have found
that mice sing miniature ultrasonic arias
to the opposite sex, even
though we cannot hear the wrenlike song,
you and I will forget
all about the vast history of human loneliness,
you and I will induct
into the choir of the cricket
and the humpbacked whale,
this common creature singing in silence.
And how we came to this
I'm already forgetting,
distracted by hirsute Sinatras
that women in cartoons fear
the stark instant
one emerges
to send her screaming to the top of a stool,
nevermind its hunger
for cheese. Here
we are speaking
to the loose ends of existence.
Here we are waiting out September sun.
It was in the news
that I read about
the scientists, who also spoke of joy.
Of all things,
this seemed right,
especially when in my head I have
built a store of words
like dacrylphilia,
which is to be aroused by the sight of tears.
By now I've said
enough. Tell me
what your name was, before we met, before I knew my own.