February 7: A Little Angry, "Agony," Vote

Hey, all.  If you have read my second post for today, you already know that I'm not in a great mood.

So, the poem I present this evening is not particularly happy.  In fact, I would characterize it as a little angry.  That's what I'm feeling right now.  I acknowledge and embrace this emotion.  This post is my attempt to work through some stuff tonight.

Saint Marty promises to be happier tomorrow.

Agony

by:  Martin Achatz

I have seen a testicle swimming
in a bottle like a forgotten olive,
round and veined and milky, waiting
to labeled, examined, and incinerated,
like foreskin trimmed from a wailing infant,
like the black stump of an umbilical
cord, that rope of nourishment
so necessary in utero,
remnant of another universe of water.

That bottled testicle,
sitting on a table draped in cloth,
makes me ponder
my knee throbbing for rain,
a silver hair from my temple,
my body's decline and disintegration,
its fragmentation and return
to clay, not incorruptible
like Saint Theresa, who still gives off
the scent of roses after a century
in the tomb, not a fleshy miracle,
like the foreskin of Christ, guarded
by monks in a medieval monastery,
healing the lame and unpossessing
the possessed--no, my body,
my taste of agony
in a garden of sleeping fools.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Marty Achatz) for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula at the link below:

Vote for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the U. P.