The long and narrow bridge that spans the wide oval lake of your life is made from the dust of men’s skulls delicately melded by last spring’s meadow dew. It strains into form by the rudely harsh, pressing bulk of the vehicles on its surface.
The calm, warm, lapping water beneath the bridge is an undulating skin membrane that is always thinking. This membrane, however, has no memory.
Beneath the membrane is a monochromatic city of aquamarine little houses with aquamarine women whose pussies hide the color of red, yellow-speckled apples.
Your mouth waters in ravenous fear and anticipation of forgetting yourself on either side of the lake. [End Page 155]
When a seabird stalls in midair facing a headwind and rides it out by flapping in place,
When a quiet little jewel box opens its monstrous jaws onto the world, oblivious of proper diet and proper manners,
When a three-inch porcelain ballerina’s tutu drops, exposing a spiked tail—whipped under the legs jutting forward, growling and combative,
Then, and only then, are the sparks inside a gas turbine whose exhausts enable the wings to lift the carriage that carries me straight to you—festive. [End Page 156]
I am, in part, your outermost ‘man,’ and
Your innermost ‘man’ is, in part, you, and
I am, in part, my innermost ‘woman,’ and
You are, in part, my outermost ‘woman.’ [End Page 157]
Rodrigo Toscano is the author of six books of poetry, including Deck of Deeds (Counterpath, 2012) and Collapsible Poetics Theater (a 2007 National Poetry Series Selection). His writing has appeared in the anthologies Against Expression, Diasporic Avant Gardes, and The Best American Poetry. He works for the Labor Institute out of a laptop, tethered to a Droid, residing in airports, occupying poetics in midflight. His home base is the Greenpoint Township of Brooklyn.