Charles Harper Webb
I am a native speaker of English,and that language strongly influences the way I see the world. Being a heterosexual man influences my vision in at least as strong a way. I can't help it, and I wouldn't want to.
Flash
Is what I'm seeing meant to tempt—
the thighs' white V narrowing
toward a black vanishing point
under a scrunched maternity dress?
Does pregnancy cause absent-mindedness
or loss of modesty? Does the fetus need
airing? Should I fake indifference,
as when nursing women bare? I look
away, but like hooked fish, my eyes
keep jerking back. At the hot
springs outside Eugene, I’d fire up a "j",
and join the other Flower Guys pretending
naked girls weren't there, while behind
our coolest shades, we stared and stared.
I lifted weights, preparing for my nude
scenes there. Impending Mommy’s
wobbly thighs could use more exercise
than lolling in a chair across from me—
a sexist thought, but there it is.
I try to be sensitive, non-phallocentric;
but already I can hear The Goddess
screaming from her Garden
in that voice she uses when I’m most
despised.
Exeunt
Hercules founds the first labor union, lumbers to the top of Mt.
Olympus, booms apologies to those he's man-handled, then
dives.
Alexander re-ties the Gordian knot, vacates his conquered lands
and, as his disbanded army cheers, rides Bucephalus into the sea.
Henry VIII tells the Pope, "Sorry," frees his hawks and hounds,
bequeaths his golden armor to the poor, convicts himself of
bigamy, and lops off his own head.
George Washington stomps his cocked hat, pens regrets to Cornwallis
and King George, digs a grave at Mt. Vernon, and pulls the turf
over his face.
Casanova enters therapy for sex-addiction, marries, and becomes
a house-husband.
Stonewall Jackson frees his slaves, burns his Confederate flag,
founds a school of social work, and in his spare time, studies
ballet.
Babe Ruth snuffs his cigar, shoos flappers off his knees, waves
to the crowd, and joins the Vegan Society.
Hemingway burns his trophies and books, leaves his estate to N.O.W.,
and dies peacefully in a nursing home.
We who are left sigh with relief, then start to cheer. We feel taller,
stronger, braver, set to sire a race of gentle men.
Then, scratching their butts, the women saunter in.
Dummy Love
Was it the sorrow in her blue disk-eyes that drew Sam in to where she sat—three-quarter-
sized, limp as a paralytic—among chattering teeth, fake vomit, flies-in-ice-cubes in the window
of Laughing Hedgehog Novelties?
“Ventriloquism’s a big, honking waste of time,” Janni railed. But when the toaster
squeaked, “Golly-wolly, hot tamale!” as she bounced by in her booster bra, she had to grin.
“We should laugh more,” she said. And so the dummy joked: “Three executioners take
flying lessons . . .” “A man walks into a wood-chipper . . .“
When Sam stuffed the dummy head-first in the toilet, or slammed a door on the poor plastic
thumb, Janni roared.
“Once you and I were lace jellies caressing in warm seas. Now we’re pears gone gooshy
in the crisper,” she sighed.
Thrusting their hands into the hole beneath the dummy’s gingham dress, they used her
hands to stroke each other.
“Homewrecker!” Janni screamed, and punched the dummy’s wistful smile.
“She’s nothing to me!” Sam swore, jumped back, and kicked the dummy’s plastic gut.
She doubled up, but sprang back into shape, smiling.
What kind of fellow wouldn’t fall for that?
"Dummy Love" first published in the Chiron Review.
