The Abortionist
All the weeks of gentleness
of thinned fabric fluttering
kissing bare knee, skirted
sun blonded so in love.
This means nothing.
I saw her, pass, slip
from the sky, oily slipped from the sky
dark yolk she drips.
At Notredame I thanked God
but, damn now I see it.
the hard horns pricking
nimbus, as she reels
down her mauves,
the pinks, as she blanches
the light.
See it return:
The American sun, it has
no mercy or discretion: looks
at everything as if all were
equal.
It is back, we drag blacks,
your dark collected beauties,
the oily fetus that weighs
as we walk.
The journey is rough
with such baggage. Yet you insist
we have lost it, yet plainly I
see it. Discern her oriental cackle
the cellophane crackle. It nicks
the nerve, needles the vein,
hypodermic. She sucks her
bloodlust. Licks the lip crust
then retreats to her transparent
sac. Tomorrow I will abort her
out out out!
