I need to have a little mole removed.
I need to have a little soul removed.
In the kitchen, I laughed.
Last month
when I told you about my plan.
A small cosmetic procedure,
a little mole to remove.
My ridiculous embarrassment.
I can only see it with a hand mirror,
and I have to bend over.
But you see it. You know it’s there.
You said no need.
You didn’t care.
But if I must
keep it under 500.
In the sir-ups, I cried.
This Monday
when she told me - positive.
Unplanned,
once dreamt of.
I can’t.
Not now. There's someone else to consider.
So I’ll go back next Monday.
She’ll give me the injection.
A small medical procedure.
On Wednesday I’ll bend over
with a hand mirror.
I’ll insert the poison pellets
to remove an embryo, a little soul,
and I’ll wait for it to melt from my body,
begin to run red,
down and out,
onto a white horse.
Then the soul will be removed.
Only you will know it was there.
The mole will remain,
but the soul only cost 450.
Trying to Love George Bush
They married late, quietly. Laura had peach flavored hair and forgiveness then. She turned him on when she sucked peel-your-own shrimp from their shells and slapped the skins onto the paper tablecloth, spanking them down as she reached for another. That was at their place, their corner place, the back booth. Back when they had places. Before everything he laid his eyes on suddenly became theirs, a trick of fame, and nothing was special anymore. Between sucks he said, “How ‘bout makin’ it legal, Laura?” Her reply—only a smile.
W secretly hoped their baby would be a boy. So he could see the view from his own father’s vantage point. He bought a tiny baseball glove, royal blue, for another boy born to be the king of America. He hid it in his bottom drawer, so he wouldn’t hurt her feelings. Hands resting on her belly-shelf, she asked. He lied, “I don’t care. Girl or boy. As long as he’s healthy.”
There was a traffic jam; he couldn’t get her to the delivery room fast enough for the right anesthesia. He thought he was watching his wife—the only person on the planet who had loved him without condition—he thought he was watching her die. Black tubing and blood and overhead fluorescence. The heart monitor sounded an alarm the nurse didn’t hear, yet it pummeled his eardrums. Laura arched her back and howled, gripping the handrails. Then her breath was gone, and she let go, and stared at him as if underwater. “She needs oxygen,” he said. The nurse organized instruments on a table with wheels, thinking of her grocery list. The long, sterile tools reminded him of hunting, his first Bowie knife and the taxidermist’s garage. Again Laura grabbed for something stable, him this time. She whispered, her eyes frantic, “Help me, George. Help me.” She had never asked him for anything before. He peeled her fingers off his sweatshirt one by one, like the shrimp they used to love. He crossed the room, put his face inches from the nurse’s ear. He said with devil’s pillow talk to the head in the scrubs, “Lady, you get my wife here some air to breathe and somethin’ for the pain or, I swear to God, I will cut off your head faster than my first ten-point buck.”
The first was a girl. Laura named her after his mom. Then another girl came. A small and slippery squab. He thought he might drop it. Sweat dripped from the end of his nose onto her pink blanket. He didn’t know what to do with girls.
W secretly hoped their baby would be a boy. So he could see the view from his own father’s vantage point. He bought a tiny baseball glove, royal blue, for another boy born to be the king of America. He hid it in his bottom drawer, so he wouldn’t hurt her feelings. Hands resting on her belly-shelf, she asked. He lied, “I don’t care. Girl or boy. As long as he’s healthy.”
There was a traffic jam; he couldn’t get her to the delivery room fast enough for the right anesthesia. He thought he was watching his wife—the only person on the planet who had loved him without condition—he thought he was watching her die. Black tubing and blood and overhead fluorescence. The heart monitor sounded an alarm the nurse didn’t hear, yet it pummeled his eardrums. Laura arched her back and howled, gripping the handrails. Then her breath was gone, and she let go, and stared at him as if underwater. “She needs oxygen,” he said. The nurse organized instruments on a table with wheels, thinking of her grocery list. The long, sterile tools reminded him of hunting, his first Bowie knife and the taxidermist’s garage. Again Laura grabbed for something stable, him this time. She whispered, her eyes frantic, “Help me, George. Help me.” She had never asked him for anything before. He peeled her fingers off his sweatshirt one by one, like the shrimp they used to love. He crossed the room, put his face inches from the nurse’s ear. He said with devil’s pillow talk to the head in the scrubs, “Lady, you get my wife here some air to breathe and somethin’ for the pain or, I swear to God, I will cut off your head faster than my first ten-point buck.”
The first was a girl. Laura named her after his mom. Then another girl came. A small and slippery squab. He thought he might drop it. Sweat dripped from the end of his nose onto her pink blanket. He didn’t know what to do with girls.
Licorice
I have desire for you.
I have greed.
I am reaching up for the sticky licorice,
peeling it apart.
I wait
for the sweet texture, its smooth bumps and ridges,
leather that melts on the tongue.
Do you suck it out?
Do you bite off the tip? Make it your own?
I’m a slow idol teasing your sugar craving.
Your desire, insecure, makes you slower than you want to be.
You don’t want to slow your need, your greed,
your desire already displayed.
On your knees in my living room, your shirt open, fly open,
holding my dress to my waist, your hands at each hip.
White thighs open.
Holding it there,
a lazy door that will close if you let go.
I look down on you,
a drugged queen knighting a green subject.
You reach with a cupped hand,
receiving your communion with a single palm.
You reach into me,
looking up at my eye.
You are a small boy reaching into the licorice jar.
I have greed.
I am reaching up for the sticky licorice,
peeling it apart.
I wait
for the sweet texture, its smooth bumps and ridges,
leather that melts on the tongue.
Do you suck it out?
Do you bite off the tip? Make it your own?
I’m a slow idol teasing your sugar craving.
Your desire, insecure, makes you slower than you want to be.
You don’t want to slow your need, your greed,
your desire already displayed.
On your knees in my living room, your shirt open, fly open,
holding my dress to my waist, your hands at each hip.
White thighs open.
Holding it there,
a lazy door that will close if you let go.
I look down on you,
a drugged queen knighting a green subject.
You reach with a cupped hand,
receiving your communion with a single palm.
You reach into me,
looking up at my eye.
You are a small boy reaching into the licorice jar.
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