Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

She said it happened when her Dick went limp.
He’d never been the biggest, but was strong
enough—had never been that tall, but reached
to levels she could never reach herself.
His trunk had definition more than bulk
and held a head that swelled beyond its means.
Her Dick went limp; she now asked what it meant
to be a woman crippled, impotent.
She touched—she held herself—while would-have-beens
and wish-it-weres and no-mores came to sulk
in flaccid comorbidity. The hell
from which she looked at me was torture bleached
with tears. “To take away my Dick is wrong—”
she said— “you might as well decrutch a gimp.”


RIP REJ

Many layers in this one. All of them sad losses.

~A

You have touched out and reached new ground with this fine poem, Joel.