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The Tenant
First you carefully slit my throat from ear to ear and pulled the flap way back, an entrance to the wigwam of my chest, made semi- circular incisions (cut on the bias) beneath my arm pits, then carved clean down each side. Foot braced against my pelvis, you ripped the whole flap down, skinning this cat from chin to belly. I was open, an unzipped sleeping bag. You crawled inside and drew the flap to. It sealed tight and final as Hansel and Gretel's oven. Now your games begin. You tap tap tap on my tired brain with a little lead hammer like some aspirin commercial, my bones clang and bang, ice-cold plumbing attacked by some irrate tenant (which you are). You voo-doo hat pins into my doll-like heart, kick against my belly: Feel the world's largest foetus! See the world's first pregnant man! Every bite I eat nourishes you, you funnel off every drink. When I fast you suck my blood. Already I've dropped forty pounds. When I sleep you project old horror movies in the theater of my skull. When I wake you make my eyes mist, spraying Windex on the mirrors of my soul. I grind like blind Samson while you, like a sailor hauling anchor, pull my guts. You've an open-ended lease, free heat and plenty of water, the garbage is collected regular, Tll never get rid of you. I refuse to paint every third year.