- The Solipsists
A faerie skyful of stars: the night we declared total war!
You swung your flowery fist at my world, exclaiming, “I thirst,
but you hand me a scummy cup of dirty sand!” I threw up
your skittishness and self-absorption, as just cause for the abortion
of our original vows. Why should I kowtow
to your every diva-desire? With one blink you locked me in hell-fire
forever. I never saw such hate— as you quickly, courteously ate
the lettuce leaves of your salad, setting the goat cheese aside. A Chopin ballade
ignited the radio, and I saw I must go
out into the night, once again, to some bar, and diddle a friend;
and be diddled. I could have ladled
you like thin stew into a bowl, or like a mangy fowl’s
chopped off your head. “That’s right, play dead,”
you sighingly said, “act dumb, run to some dumb
bar. Don’t face the music. Stew in your alcoholic jacuzzi.”
Thus our marriage was deposed. The stars themselves decomposed.
You went your solipsistic way, and I went my solipsistic way.
Works by Michael Biehl
• After the Corpus Christi Feast Day Procession
• The Solipsists
Mike Biehl has published his poems in Image: A Journal of the Arts & Religion, Interim, Creeping Bent, and The Graham House Review. He resides in San Francisco.