Vincent Zompa
Yes, right now.
Right now there is
a snow owl somewhere close,
like a sexual odor.
Fingers at my temples, eyes shut,
I just know when something is amok
or around.
I contain.
I never told you—
I was born with a tiny me
inside of me, near my hip.
Made of ox tongue and rhubarb.
Made
of hair, bird bones,
a gas cap, some blueberries.
The surgeons cut him out
but couldnÕt resuscitate him.
They tapped his white lung.
They warmed him in ovens.
Afraid of what the loss
would do,
they put him back inside of me.
Because of this, I can hear things.
I once hid
in the soupy light of a cowÕs stomach.
I lived on grass and a holy light.
I read my favorite book for years.
It was called the Dark Book of Saddles and
Brine.
It was two pages long.
Right now, in your brothers hands,
there is a
lake wrestling its water.
How do I know? Believe me, I know.
By God I am carried in two
like lovers in the blanched hand of Rodin.
DonÕt even fool around.
I met you in the blind neon chatrooms
of a bridled and corpulent freedom.
On our first date,
we licked ice cream
from the horseÕs mouth.
We drained children
from each otherÕs hands.
We loved a night sky and our necks
cracked at the stars.
I lick the forensic dildo of forgetting;
it is large and electrically charged,
impossible to fit anywhere.
In the television
they are always finding things
inside of sharks.
When everyone cheers.
A surferÕs leg, a shopping list,
a license plate from an inland state.
What if they found my heart in there
or a hot dog?
What if they found Mr. Olsen,
or his ancient purple BMW?
Or Siamese twins, like the ones
my great-aunt Kay was watching
one afternoon on Oprah.
IÕve never seen so many people
in one place, she said.
The two Debbies,
the two Vinnys.