Potluck

 

T H I S    W E E K

WATERSLIDES IN AUXILIARY HOSPITAL WASHROOM by Daniel Thompson

 

Two Poems


Fly Trap
 

From your mattress
in the morning, it
looks like a two-foot
long condom hanging
from a hook, orange,
twirled like taffy
poured from a can,
dotted with its trophies. 

I see it when I wake
to the memory of your fist
against my chest, your hand
open-palmed against my cheek— 
that hasn’t happened yet,
but it’s something you said
last night—maybe,
“I guess I just assumed
you’d be the bottom,”

or,

“You mean if I choked you
during sex it wouldn’t be ok?” 

Sometimes I wish I were a woman
so at least I could say
all men are the same:

wolves. But then, you tell me,
honey, don’t you? You tell me

I’m the woman
and you’re the wolf,

the stallion’s thrust,
the seed, the man.

And I lay here as you snore
watching sun stream past a fly snare,
your sweaty skin stuck to my back
and a bruise blossoming
on the corner of my

affection, a fly
in your trap, a nice
shiksa lady to bring
home to your Jewish

mother. 

 

 




                                                                       Said the Spider to the Fly
 

                                                                                          We
                                                                                      stand in
                                                                                  your kitchen.
                                                                                The water boils.
                                                                              A symphony swells
                                                                           from a little black box.
                                                                        “This is the kind of music
                                                                        they play when a vampire
                                                                          bites his pray,” you say.
                                                                              Yes. You are right.
                                                                                 You clutch my
                                                                                   hands, yank,
                                                                                           bite.

 

 

 

Jacob Budenz is a writer, performer, and occasional witch living in Baltimore. He keeps a small journalistic art blog at afflatusarts.tumblr.com.