after Anthony Hecht
The entrance to a strobe-lit, unisex
bathroom; redness, chafed thighs in leather
pants. The first stone thrown by Pyrrha.
The consistent capitalization of You.
The lame gift: a faux-Gucci
handbag given to Guccio himself.
The patient numb with grief
who always thinks the inkblot looks
like a face turned sideways. A bottle of Clairol
with no color label. An airplane sailing
through a paper shredder. The broadside
of a ship, always almost drowning. A swamped
mother, nursing a teething child. And me:
God’s own little land-dwelling piranha.