by Alexis Romano
No, I am no Sylvia Plath.
My name is Alexis,
but you Henry, you! are uglier than sin.
Even uglier than me
on my last day of life,
on the first day of my period. Was that too much?
You are sweaty as a threesome, making love
to your lines and rhymes and syllable counts.
I see you there, alone at night, writing your poems.
The night lightens and listens to you. She hears
your call for the mad ones, yes, the pretty girls
who are wringing wet, sucking and sobbing.
They
open
like orchids, Henry.
I know this.
Your God would never allow it,
for He sees you slipping like a woman, crying out:
my erections are normal in every way!
Henry, you stand there soaked like a used tampon.
My advice is to run along and pray to all my gods,
for we all know you want to be loved.
You want to write poems too,
but you are a bore,
hanging
like sausages
and we—the poets—scream out! to you: grip it with one hand, Henry. Use it!
