A syzygy of grey moons line my pillowcase
Meek, brittle, and in this moment ornamental.
What I fear has not come to pass
Yet each time I picture her, the intern,
Blank as a college-ruled notebook
I smother my holdings, hoping only
That they will die, passively with me.
A troglodyte composed in her shadow,
I do not even exist but for comparison.
That this miraculous creature
Should mount the wick
While I congeal in a shallow dish
Is a recursion of fate, a necessity.
What am I if not sublimation?
Her pelvis bounces incessantly
As if her womb were a bell,
Calling mass and every man
Wanting to worship inside of her.
Posterity will render me harshly
For such a gorgeous woman
Cannot but be the heroine
And she will save you from pain
From the years of sorries and neverminds
Imposed on the faithful.