Facets of a Singular Thing


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