Names
There are some names
I should avoid - names like
Circe, Achilles and Helen.
But when you've lived with them
cheek by backside they become
more than just first cousins.
One was a washer woman
with crazed varicose veins.
who never failed to turn me
into her pig.
Another was a matchmaker
who ruined a whole series
of futures and who would ruin
mine had I given him the chance.
The last was the woman
who floated all my little boats
then sank them so I renamed
her, spayed her, infibulated
her history, sewed her name
so tight to her thighs that it
became a single letter on my
dry tongue.
She is now a single capital.
A bridge between her legs.
I sailed between those thighs once
then never spoke of it again but
our war of silence went on for a
decade till eventually she moved on.
To Paris.
So I let those names die, their myths fade
because their realities, their histories, were
too nauseous to be a part me anymore instead
I dog tied myself to other less exotic names.
