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Maybe
Cynthia
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(The "incident",
for those who are privy,
concerns Hyacinthus' underwear.
Hyacinthus was a friend who Apollo
accidently slew... so He made him into
a flower. So here's a poem for
Maybe Cynthia.)
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We met with your
pants down
and your guts blocked
strangled
starving
through mourning bleak hours
with and without the white flowers weeping
we found a way to unwind your anger
and your sorrow
save you from the surgeon gamble
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hey
we shared such intimacies
all this is sacred
I'm glad we contrived
that I should never enter your house
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in my house
in the heart of my sacred space
I have your "sample"
bottled clouds and innards
and beside it
I have your two faces
on the wall
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collaberation with Teresa Allan
so many layers
you said intensely
your said three times a week
the issues were:
what to let in
and what to let out
your inner doctor
a cartoon duck
said smoking was the big issue
that's grief in the lungs
grief in the lungs
choking you to death
my needles
just made them taste better
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I said I have a
problem
I find you attractive
I just love her
I could just
shit
I really think you're wonderful
you said
is that a problem
I mean
that's only natural
it isn't a problem
unless it's intense
is it intense
well it was intense
just at that moment
as I talked about it
but I never wanted
to get in your panties
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I tried to make
sure
you felt safe
that's why I spoke of my stuff
around placing my hands
in intimate places
bellies
there's stuff in bellies
and mouths
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I told you I had
Bertold Brecht's
four simultaneous mistresses
held before me as the ultra Byron
the beyond Bethune
or words to that effect
(well, were they?
(I said, tongue tied, simply
("My father was a fucker."
(My therapist points out that
(when we say something
(our words command an image,
(and that this image may attach to us,
(so be careful with your words.)
I said my father was a fucker
(I did not say that my head being
therefore sometimes cuntstruck/cockstruck)
I distrusted
the impulse to put my hands
on breast or belly
on intimate parts
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in the sanctity
of my honouring you
you vomited up your secret
you felt safe
the pain receded
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hugging would be
too intimate
then doctor duck
got weary
damp in the dripping
under your diaphragm
he suggested a vacuum cleaner
to suck it out
and my thoughts and my mouth
ran away with me
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having blown spirits
away
I fell into a contusion
of suck and blow
what was my grin
you probably didn't even notice
but wouldn't you like to know
I thought
of course you would
and why not
(emotional exhaustion
(my only excuse.
(my Naturopath says I "ebullated".)
the thought of sucking
below your diaphragm
it might give you hickies
I said
and yes that's an impropriety
bad fantasy
bad boy
said my notes to you
in my record of that last encounter
which you complained
was impersonal
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it was
we had tried to jolly the duck
a dumb idea
hey don't I get a hearing
isn't there a "Herb"
on my side team
one bad day
and you're out
no second chance
did I betray your trust
clumsy
I was certainly clumsy
Cynthia walks away
and I can but hope she now has
my gift
the resources to heal herself
but she who brought
me Cynthia
is building walls
she's sets her heart against me
raging like her mother
digging pits
how's she gonna heal?
and all this is intimate
and sacred
and private
and hurts
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