Pique

On a jar of Marie’s Piquant Tartar Sauce,

Marie herself: high heels with ankle straps,

short skirt, for contrast a small apron

and best of all the big wooden spoon

she held aloft, bossy/playful, up for anything.

Stern taskmistress, that Marie. More

complex by far than Betty or Veronica.

Absently I swabbed my fishsticks through

the processed goop, I chewed the gritty mouthfuls,

the curve of Marie’s calves looking at me

quite firmly, my face reflected in the toaster

distorting monstrously, innocently. …

Thus my adolescence passed: I sprouted

wolfman hairs and periodically got hard

to a pixie hybrid of Gulliver’s Travels

and The Hite Report. My hormones’ 24/7

moaning consigned to Saturday nights, I now

understand whore is a home that fits all sizes (man,

woman, and child), the oldtime Sharkofishies (meaning

slaveships), railroad barons and descendants,

basketballers, movie stars, stalk stalk stalkers; now I am

thoroughly conversant with what Mr. Williams

meant when he said “The pure

products of America/go crazy” and Bill

Knott barked “In curtseyland I’ll take my stand!”

and E. Costello asked the point blank question

“Who put these fingerprints on my imagination?;”

now is the time for me to scribble

sweet nothings in the breakfast nook,

Marie, straight to you. Let’s stretch the notion

of democracy as far as it will go. Picture

a row of dominoes that fall sideways

one by one, doing no harm to the next in line;

let them become the crossties of a railroad track

horizon-rushing but arriving

never; let the rails rise and twist,

the double helix (aka DNA)

recovered from a crime scene,

binding generations. Are you still

with me, Marie? I compare all that

to the propagation of assorted noses,

predilections (including guilt), and equity

through time. Thus I come to the deeply

weird part: Who made you, Marie,

also made me. Implicated, I’m in the goop

and fizz of goods and services;

the stock market’s ziggiest zag

interests me, as I must tend to the nickels

and dimes I inherited, and (Praise

the Lord) I do all right, being

fond of the Coke machine’s red glow

humming outside the feed store late at night:

cold, cold (cold as advertised) cans of a sweetness

that can eat nails, the legend goes. Gratefully

I partake even though I kneejerk hate

parent corporations; that’s what “piquant” means

to yours truly, Marie. I’ve peeked and I’ve peaked

and now I am pure pique, here in Crumbville,

where wanderlust is rampant. If ever I travel

to Ireland, home of my ancestors

and their famous famine, I’ll keep an eye out

for a leprechaun (shillelagh, clay pipe,

as depicted) cocking an eyebrow

to signal curiosity, as actual humans

actually do.