Phallic and Fallopian: A Lover’s Tale
If you are not going to write big
poems about big things, then go to hell.
Horace Navarone (1921-1945)
It all started late one night at the Met
when the poets began to rub
each other’s backs.
There were telltale signs
of lovemaking everywhere:
sticky saucers with toenail
clippings, clumps of hair
which the cats carefully removed
and placed in each corner,
ripped pages from archaic
tape and lots of tacks.
In the morning,
the curator ran to the director
to show him every messy detail.
The poets escaped, presumably,
through a broken window—
a blood track dribbled
to the floor.
The director wanted it tested—
he wanted each poet
found and tagged.
As various authorities arrived,
they noticed movement
in the sculpture garden:
one of the poets
could no longer hold its breath.
It was a heroic effort:
no longer feeling syllabic,
it tried to petrify.
They took it away for questions.
All it would say is
I’m feeling phallic and fallopian
at the same time. Pull my string.
When they did,
it said I love you mommy.
They reassigned the curator
to fiction, where he would unravel
narratives of the Left Behind series.
The director would go home
with the doll in his arms— his wife
made him sit down