POETRY: His Role, His Sword, Him, and Me

His Role, His Sword, Him, and Me

© Mimi Wolske, December 2009

All Rights Reserved

Image

In he sweeps,

through an open door,

just after a big

gust of testosterone

and tumbleweeds of

pubic hair,

with his not-so-fresh

claims, after

relative

obscurity,

on everyone’s

attention.

Male wounds.

Male rights.

Male grandeur.

Male whimpers of neglect.

Masculine

cultivation of his

feminine side

was, perhaps,

ejaculated prematurely.

Problems with

his male identity.

His newly found

impregnable

humorlessness

embarrassment

goads his

male conscious,

male pride,

male rage.

He demands,

but from whom,

to have returned his

Zeus energy,

divine energy,

hurricane energy,

so he can once more

brandish

“the Vajra sword”

of sexuality,

of courage,

and to dream of

championing

the moist,

the “swampish”,

the wild,

the untamed.

He awaits my words:

“Oh, pierce the

dangerous places

with your handfuls

of courage so

I may receive

my reward…

in the bedroom.”

Ephemeral

Journeymen,

eco-masculinity,

seed-bearing male,

bristly and prickly

authority to be

accepted for the

sake of the alpha male.

“Kiss it,” he demands.

I submit.

I kneel.

I embrace.

I kiss.

I worship.

(This is one of my older poems recovered by a friend from my blog site that was hacked in 2010.) 

 

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