What do you mean, that April was already
the cruellest month? Impossible.
I was the complete breach whose kinked
and wrinkled eye quivered the enormous
thighs that propelled the monster
who for a brief spell was her smile
which alas, morphed into afterbirth,
messy gob of purple brackish thing
she wore into that muggy summer
and henceforth and henceforth.
Cruel is not the word --
something more treacherous
would get at it
the hard-set face chiseled into beauty
by nature and stone by nurture
aggrieved that I, awkward spawn
enmeshed in muck
would never be some lithe reflection,
but just a luckless duck.
But there were those first few weeks,
so the bard was wrong
June was far more cruel because
that ended the sleepwalk
and she could see the damage done.
Half a century's flown like giddy geese
afterbirth has sagged like all else
and now hides in a designer bra
as though a chest there lurks
where there was none before
or something like a chest or,
most absurd of all, a heart.
copyright Julianza Shavin