A short story in a poem
-I-
There is a weeping willow in the courtyard,
and a
weeping fig next to the fountain.
The weeping vulva of the teary-eyed…woman
in my bed
could have made a lot of sense considering,
instead,
she seemed
out of place somehow,
and out of time,
as
I paced to and fro in the shed,
my
penis still wet and
dripping,
contemplating my next
move.
-II-
It seemed like a…thing.
An ugly hideous little
thing.
A plastic…thing.
A rubbery…thing.
That a b o r t e d
thing.
That used-to-be-alive
thing.
That now dead and deadening
thing.
That soul-aching, heart-wrenching
thing.
That incomprehensible, almost meaningless,
awkward
looking
thing.
That blood-soaked
thing.
That oozy little
thing,
with
cannibalistic eyes,
with
cannibalistic every-
thing…
Suddenly,
the whole
thing
stopped feeling like a mistake
and
looked more like
a game,
a very old and
foolish,
yet
perhaps necessary,
game,
of all
things.
June 2001