It’s Saturday morning. It’s raining outside. I tossed and turned all night, and I can’t find any jazz sad enough to make me feel good by contrast.
Because it’s Saturday morning, I’m supposed to be composing a blog post including more of the poetry of Al Levine. This is not an outside assignment, but an interior commitment—the kind one had best not shirk. I don’t feel like doing this, but there it is on the list—non-negotiable. So…
The following is not the poem that I had planned to share today, but it is on the list. And it suits my mood. So here it is:
THE CANNIBAL’S HELPER
First she commits seppuku
By stabbing herself in the stomach
And then without ripping up
And spilling out her guts
She follows me into the kitchen
Where I’ve heated up the stove:
All ready to roast her body when she dies.
But she’s not dead,
She only follows me around the house
With a smirk on her face
And a small neat elliptical incision on her belly.
She wants to embrace me
Thinking to overcome me by the force of my aversion.
But I surprise her by taking her shoulders in my hands
And holding her close.
She’s not even very bloody
But I can’t remember whether her body is warm or cold.
I could have eaten her then,
Neither dead nor alive.
There. Debt paid. Have a great day.