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  • The Solipsists
  • Michael Biehl (bio)

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

Michael Biehl

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.


Additional Information

Print ISSN
pp. 341-342
Launched on MUSE
Open Access
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