She removes her tortoise shell glasses
with the rose colored lens
and begins
Imago, my Imago!
Knitted from pheromones
and knobbed kneed memories,
birthed from a blueprint half unfolded
and wet with shadows,
you were to be the surgical stitch
for the endemic wounds of my vulnerable childhood.
Yet, you have proven to be merely a dry hump mimic
of my Electra complex.
He, mirroring: A dry hump.
We sit in this room
and burn incense to cover the stench
as we excrete every variation
of the tale of The Wandering Proboscis and the Random Honeydew
as if the ending will morph with the next retelling.
He, summarizing: Wandering Proboscis and Random Honeydew.
We pin ourselves beneath sodium lights
until not even a wing can flutter,
tunnel deeper,
dragging our inverted funnels into the day
as if photonic therapy can cure
neuroses and assholery.
He, validation: That makes sense because efficacy has not been documented.
All of the dialogue in the world
is just pencil scratches on a pine box.
You can't bring true sight to an eyespot.
A predator with good hair and a Jaguar
is still a predator.
He (beginning to bristle), empathy: I imagine that you feel, uh, feel . . .
I
feel like I want the goddamn transcription to reflect that I am
done. My daddy was a bastard. You are a bastard. Men are bastards. I'm going to take up witchcraft, become a lesbian, and learn to crochet.
Note: When I saw that "Imago" was one of Shawna's words, the therapist in me couldn't resist. Imago therapy is based on the belief that we marry a composite of our parent(s) to heal the wounds of childhood. It is practiced through structured couples dialogue. I don't think much of it.
For Open Link Night at dVerse
