Vol. 48 No. 2 1981 - page 259

Hold your penis,
the young man shouts and I feel the razor
slide across the black hairs,
my proud hairs.
Part of me is gaudy,
unruly, obvious. I try to keep the rest
proper as a stick of wood.
ingratiating
to
the hand and eas ily governed.
There are three of us outside short procedure.
Nothing much is to happen.
My body feels like leaves,
I have fallen from many places,
have been raked here.
I look for a doctor
as if I were turning to the light.
The hall is cold and unforgiving.
I am a stick. Use me.
Build this day's blaze out of me.
Lying in the crib
I wait for the flames.
I'll smuggle it into all that cleanliness.
Fire doesn't mind begging for attention.
It will be seen to,
soothed like an old pet going from room to room crying.
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