byCal Y. Pygia©

Clay faces, grotesque in the night,
Grinning sly madness,
Their eyeless eyes bright,
Despite their earthiness:
I made them, one and all,
As each made me--
A little different than I was--
Before. . . .

Shelves are cells of memory
And desire,
Stacked in tiers
On bedroom walls;
I count them, one and all,
Remembering when and wheree and what
We were, back then--
Before. . . .

Clay faces, bodiless
Heads, decapitated
Torsos long lost and forgotten,
If they ever were:
The shelves bleed sometimes,
When no one is there to see;
The stains dull when they dry;
They are not as bright as once they were--
Before. . . .

There is a world within
The shrunken heads
Of yesteryear:
What sights those eyeless eyes
Might have seen!
What music those earless ears
Might have heard!
What soft sweet talk those lipless lips
Might have sung!
But they are sightless, deaf, and dumb
Now, not as they were once--
Before. . . .

I kept the breasts
(Because of the nipples)
And the penises
And testicles
(Because of the shape
And weight of them
And the way they looked,
Nipples and penises both,
When they swelled stiff to stand erect)--
Before. . . .

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