Issue 162, Summer 2002
should have been, the way I was born out of your head
whole, out of your wig-crown and frozen oneeye; limestone
and the broken serpent, you are spent in pendants
and now set on coffee tables with only your rock
crystal eye in profile, not the defiled white socket
in your head, the place you saved for harvest, the ugly
acumen mark so that we lived for only the secret, perfect sex
we yielded, not seeing anything else in each other's faces.
Next to me
the hickey I left on your skinny neck, which is misinterpreted
as a scar, a kind of ritual of Ahten, S & M. Did you master
the language of the West? Banished me from the soft belly,
the fertile flood ground and seedbed, old Mesopotamia, and
think, big head, of my cast-down eye and the sweat between
the long-heeled spike of my need, mind, to be devoted.