she said, lies never within your question
but always within my answer. My words,
she said, ever effuse cloud, suggestion
masked like faces passing in some absurd
candlelit hallway or strobelighted room
where surgeons flash scalpels, laughing as they
slash mannequins stuffed with orchids from tombs
of ancient pharaohs. Remember? We’d play
doctor and nurse as children. I’d touch your
body parts and you’d clutch mine like gumdrops.
I’d giggle and you’d cry, felt your impure
soul would sizzle like ground round now you’d cropped
your psyche’s uncut prod. I’d start to pour
honey over us. You’d squirm ’cross waxed floor,
squawking like Poe’s raven, then out our door.
Roger Armbrust
September 16, 2010
