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.