Chère Malaise
Scratched on the men’s room wall at
Major Nutmeg’s Lonely Hearts Pub,
this priceless gem:
Every man is only what
his mother allows him to become.
Does that explain it then?
How you always made my pulse race,
no matter if you did it by
dancing a striptease for me in church
like a hellbound jezebel or
igniting a puerile argument
about the superior cola?
Unworthy punching bag that I was,
I adored everything about you,
inelegant as you were even in
a merino mini and new Manolo’s–
your wicked smile when
you discovered my porno collection,
your unedited woman smell
during your period,
your third nipple, sweet
as an extra drop of molasses.
Truth be told,
I miss you less than I do the thing
that was growing between us, struggling
to break through the unforgiving
shell our egos, the thing we surely
would have christened “Respect.”
Back then, idolatry erased any
tragic flaws you might’ve had,
these Oedipal eyes only saw
your red claws, your white teeth,
an end to the vexing problem
of this empty bed.
- James R. Whitley
