Irk Some Sex
St. Paul of Thebes took to the desert to ignite God’s brightness.
He survived on date palms and bread
brought by a raven. Similarly, Woody Allen,
in What's New,
Pussycat?, lit his menorah for atmosphere,
Peter Paul Rubens painted Venus Fest,
and a Hapsburg queen washed her hair in egg yolk
and cognac every third day, and now you
raise your eyebrows, tilt your head,
and remind me of a night I stood in the rain waiting for
schnitzel,
and once I had it, leaned back satisfied
staring at red cowboy boots in a shop window across the
street
wishing I could dance meringue on the slick, wet
cobblestones.
That is how you are some sick kid, Little Big Hands,
your hipster intellectualism notwithstanding,
rubbing your chin as though you are watching Frontline,
plumbing my refrigerator as though searching for porn,
and I remind you that it is my refrigerator, close the door
and keep your hands in view at all times
because although you are no baseball player,
have no out-of-fashion facial hair
or oral fixation, you can do things
such as not sweat after eating jalapenos,
not wear a yellow shirt in which you resemble Charlie Brown,
not say anything irksome, maudlin, or lick my face.
You are like The
Eleventh Finger, a painting
that I can't remember, and an icon
(The Infant of Prague)
that I can't pray to
without laughing. Check your watch so I can see your wrist,
fix the cabinet latch, close the door, show me how
to use a nail gun, how to coil a hose properly, efficiently,
smooth the sheet, put things in order,
back together, then, set them all on fire.
-- Allison Contey
