After seeing the documentary we walk down Canyon Road,
onto the plaza of art galleries and high end clothing stores
where the mock orange trees are fragrant in the summer night
And the smooth adobe walls glow fleshlike in the dark.
It is just our second date, and we sit down on a bench,
holding hands, not looking at each other,
and if I were a bull penguin right now I would lean over
and vomit softly into the mouth of my beloved
and if I were a peacock I’d flex my gluteal muscles to
erect and spread the quills of my Cinemax tail.
If she were a female walkingstick bug she might
insert her hypodermic probiscus delicately into my neck
and inject me with a rich hormonal sedative
before attaching her egg sac to my thoracic undercarriage,
and if I were a young chimpanzee I would break off a nearby tree limb
and smash all the windows in the plaza jewelry stores.
And if she was a Brazilian leopardfrog she would wrap her impressive
tongue three times around my right thigh and
pummel me lightly against the surface of our pond
and I would know her feelings were sincere.
Instead we sit awhile in silence, until
she remarks that in the relative context of tortoises and iguanas,
human males seem to be actually rather expressive
And I say that female crocodiles really don’t receive
enough credit for their gentleness.
Then she suggests that it is time for us to go
do something personal, hidden, and human.
TONY HOAGLAND