ON PRIDE

I lived in a rooming house then

and tried to be good but was a real

disappointment. A man without cunning

is like an empty matchbox. I can’t remember

now the sad, slow procession of words

between us. Only the hurt. Plug the hole

if the patient is bleeding, I thought.

If you do the right thing in the first three minutes

you’ll survive. So we put ice cubes on our napes.

My pride was like a giant, oblong

pumpkin. My words were farting on stone.

Then I kissed you until your face became red.

I can’t remember now where the words flew off to,

but what an awful hurt.

(after Apollinaire)