Michael Schiavo / Prothalamion

    The man wearing the opposite of shelter. The man devoid of spring. The man alive.
The man straying along the Age of Science. The man whose shoulder is ajoint the
plough. The man, traditionally full.
    The man on the ship, the Good Ship Seraglio. The man with breath like Judgment
Day. The man who stands too long at the urinal. Because he must, the man who is five
six seven eight. The man crawling past bowed bayonets. The man sliding into first. The
man protecting a concern so small it can’t even draw water to its surface. The man cross-
legged. The man in sweater unzipped.
    The man whom fog knows as fog. The man dragging holler through the streets of
Hell, Michigan. The man who abhors the coming attractions. The man in certain places
summoning autumn. The man guarding the secret wall from whence the woman emerged.
The woman emerging. The woman smaller than a stockpile, larger than wool. The titanic
woman. The woman of shoals.
    The man showing her one blade, many blades. The woman seeing the lawn, finally,
as twilight prickles around them. The woman rife with cake. The woman who bemoans.
The woman on the verandah. Packing saltpeter, the woman on the other side, clucking
back at me.
    The man who suckles woman. The woman who pampers man, literally. The woman
admonished, admired. The woman in the depths of onion season. The drunk woman who
veers her unicycle into the clown parade, killing dozens. The woman black in humor. The
woman standing locally, smelling focally. The woman denying her trip to Fresno, but not
Albany.
    The woman scavenging boredom. The woman, never shaking. In the aftermath, the
woman misspelling the same word until indistinguishable from the birds at the feeder.
The woman who is a pillar against thy gross fire, profound and masked. The woman
laughing corporal. The woman not philosophy.


CUE:  A Journal of Prose Poetry
Spring / Summer 2005 Issue II, Volume 2