Born in the year imagination
pretended to break the rules,
body counts soaring well beyond
all but the nihilist’s prognosis.
Far from civic noise, jungle woes,
as though born into some backwatered House of Atreus.
When X and Y went out to play
they were themselves a double date,
blindfolded twins, though more
mid-action Houdini than
Jerusalem
birdcaged on the hull of a cathedral.
Hangover fed with caffeine and bacon
grease, oil slick of diamonds for a rendezvous.
Madonna and Slut, moving at a
leisurely slip along Las Ramblas,
up Boulevard St.-Michel, down
Paseo de la Reforma. And when
the invitation was extended to Z?
Then virgin, whore, and ghost.
If X was paladin to their incest cloisonné,
Y menage’d them, constant confidante,
her role model Racine’s neurotic ruby,
cuntproud Phedre.
Her voice on the telephone, forever more intimate
than when her lips touched ear,
to spill its whispered loot of sighs and promises.
–Outlive me & I’ll still dance barefoot on your grave,
angel, darling, sweetheart, luv!
Between them they intended to leave behind
a 50,000 lira smile,
and photographs numbered into precious thousands.
Here a Nazi mother, womb a
goldmine of monsters,
and here an assimilated father,
teary at the loss of Alsace, the recovery of Lorraine.