Her(e) it is

Here it is.
The swing-footed pumpkin-faced fool of a mailman brought it
and laid it right in my dainty little hand.

Why, thank you, sir.
Now, put it out;
a girl can't live in a cloud of smoke,
and I never learned to choke gracefully.
Be a man,
throw yourself on it for me.
It's right there, under your nose where I slammed it
in one of my sudden fits of pique.
Bleed it to death.
Drown it.
Dress it red, and then, lured by my favorite color,
I might be tempted into having a look,
or even taking it in.

Why does everything I love, do this?
Tell me, mailman. 
Stop with the stamps and spit out some Golden Wisdom.
Look in your bag--
you may have been staggering all afternoon under the weight of something Important.
A lady doesn't like to be kept waiting.
Oh, leave it then, you ashy anthill. What good are you?
Never mind;
I'll handle this myself.

Oh look, someone sent my heart back to me,
postage due and damaged.
I have been feeling hollow, like a human celery stick sat up and rotting 
in a wrought iron chair
with a fork in its forehead,
nattering on about bullshit with the girls at the salon.

Now, I can do what I want.
I can run the place and scribble poems out of my skin with a jacknife,
the very epitome and pinnacle of suburban womanhood.
My heart restored, 
I can beat myself from within, minute by minute,
a clock-girl swaying with the systolic and diastolic of my pretty balancing act.

I would thank that mailman, but I can't wake him up,
and anyway, now the crows have been at him
and he can't see my Evolvedness or my perfect tits, so what good is he?
Besides, at this point in my life,
I only want women.
Now, I am the one billowing thick dark plumes,
going up from inside my own skin,
singing gorgeously, like Tarja Turunen or an emergency alarm.

I want what I have always wanted--
to please some Dark Queen with the poems from my tongue,
and then to crawl inside her and hum,
rocking, a second soul,
her name and my name twined like a caduceus,
and finally to be cured into the bend of her arms,
favored and desired,
not Venus On The Trash Can
ranting and waiting for delivery into something better than the mail.
_________

picture: Johanna Herrstedt

for Real Toads mini-challenge