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…look how far my ancestors got after shedding
and carefully folding their clothes
--Jan Richman
Beyond desire.
Beyond what he wrote in True Confessions Magazine.
Beyond the melt-in-your-mouth baggage he packed in his valise.
The hum and click, his ten outlaw fingers
maneuvering the drawbridge to the pulsating paper doll
on the other end of the line. Smoking.
Beyond televisions, computers, and lie detector tests.
Beyond what the nuns could ever imagine, much less accept.
He plugs into the dashboard of the rhythmic convertible
and drives his point home to the Card Shark Motel. Vacancy.
He fingers the gauzy nightgown, slams down
tequila, a crusty bandage for his phantom itch,
belladonna on his swollen tongue, the blue light of the late show
reflecting through thin motel drapes. Spy.
He will die by fire in a big city where punishment
spins the globe, while he’s handcuffed to the bedpost,
ejaculate in one hand, box of tarts in the other. Devour.
The bee sting of swollen names,
germ, rash, eyesore, wound--
when he unzips his head,
the sign on the mirror reads: Prisoner.
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