I loved a woman carved from green cheese.
I nibbled her ears, kissed her until nothing
remained. I, with flute-splintered lips,
I, with soft belly fur, I, whose horns itch in Spring,
relapsed onto my haunches, blew into my reeds,
and condemned the Sun for rolling backwards
into another’s morning. I created, scrambled,
and smited worlds while colored strings of light
traded sex with powder-eyed nymphs. The birds
turned into coffee at midnight, when rat-drawn
pumpkins swerved home beneath a thousand white
freckles. I dreamed that night about fingers
and woke up chewing my knuckles. Will I go
to bed each night in a shirt and tie?
Will my children grow into their hooves?
Will my daughters flaunt their beards? Will they
anoint the feet of men with their blood, oil, perfume?
I made love to a tree that became flesh and wouldn’t let
go. We rose and fell and flushed over the sap-drenched
earth. She whispered stories to me about fish,
about ancient scaled queens that climbed from the sea
and taught humans how to kiss. She hummed soft
lullabies about a winged lover that flew her around
the world six times before her orgasm ended, and how
she could only hear the shrill whine of seconds pausing.
She remembered nothing more. She did not remember
arching her back, watching the Earth spin upside down,
and raining seed onto its bald ground. She did not
remember my goat smell. When I told her I loved her,
she released me, reached into the air, returned to wood,
and sprouted small blossoms in the dead of cold winter.
I dream a developing world each night,
and in those rooms, roaming those streets,
is an alternate me who dreams about you,
imagines your voice during mermaid stories,
sees your face in a child’s smile, your little
hands in maternal love. That me wonders
how rain can be God’s tears and still
have enough rage left to strip children
from their mothers’ arms, murder them
like cats in a river. That me flatters a dim sun
by calling it “moon.” I awake, and in moving
waters stand barefoot girls with delicious toes.
I tell them that a wet winter and spring brings
storms through August. I tell them that the forest
will trick them to sing, and to let it. I tell them
we are more than language and fears, more
than simple holes where water settles, that
from us billow such clouds that neither rock
nor bird nor beast can climb so high.
Good morning, my baby. Sometimes I wear
your scent through the day. Sometimes, when I open
my eyes, you are looking at me. I witnessed
the first sunrise. I lay purring on God’s lap.
When I jumped down to yawn and stretch my limbs,
a wind bent around the mountains, sat cross-legged
on the floor, and said that you’d stopped missing
me. It blanched my eyes with sand and laughed.
I lost my balance, fell. On an island in the middle
of a very calm lake, I am always kissing you,
and always will. Will our children write fairy
tales by candlelight? Will they run naked
across the beach and cuddle beneath a single
robe? Will they remember how to fall
in love, how to find their way back to Heaven?
Living in temporary transition, Michael Constantine McConnell breathes in Fort Worth, Texas. A poet, palindromist, singer, songwriter, and musician, he is proud to be included in Electric Velocipede’s current issue.
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