I know—why did I wait until now,
the last moment, almost the moment
after the last moment, to sing
to you, outermost, tender, heart.
Respect held me back, and shyness.
Before I first saw you, I had not
seen even a picture of you, and you were
fearsome—when it would come down to it,
between you and my maidenhead,
I knew I could trust you to push until I was
torn from my virginity—
and you were adorable, you and the penis
like the dearest most basic doll, you were like
a brain without a skull, you were like
a soul. When I was eye to eye,
for the first time, with you, and I saw you
weep, the gleaming tear emerge
from the top of your mind, from your fontanelle,
I saw how it was going to be—
it was going to be what the movie, in the dark
school auditorium, had
promised, the blossoming flower, the rich
spongy corolla, the firm male
softness, it was going to be
mercy, and ecstasy—and, in there,
there were real babies, tiny, brand-new,
with tinier babies inside them, enough
to last a lifetime, and beyond a lifetime and a lifetime.
from Ploughshares