THE FOOL

I chase the spider that slipped
from soft kisses through my throat.
I sink my arm, I reach my lungs,
I grab only smoke and ashes,
nail dirt, sleep and craggy fluff.
The spider evades the bait,
the hook hanging between ducts.
I push my arm further in.
I research every corner
in which the spider could hide.
I reach and tag my inner organs
in alphabetical order.
In Latin if it suits me;
some of them require Greek.
I rename the coarser bits
with euphemisms Iíve heard.
But I must invent new words.
The ink melts with all these fluids,
which evade me like the spider.
I grasp a mesh without a name.
Cobweb? Spider? Tentacles? Legs?
Outer organ? Pubic hair?
I pull out and the rest follows,
my fingers hitched in the muddle,
a tangle of countless threads
hair, ducts, veins, muscles and nerves.
When it all comes out unfolded,
reversed skin clung to my bones,
distorted mirror of entrails,
(sticky blood keeps it in place)
Iím ready to kiss my lips.

(Published in Magma 29)

Ernesto Sarezale, 2000-2004
www.sarezale.com
sarezale(at)yahoo.com