“And God spoke: don’t worry about ethics– this does not however mean you can behave like John McEnroe…” -Gary Shteyngart

As on the television, my big fat governor beats back another
question in the form of the voice of a woman, like any other
woman, just trying to inch past when no one looks, to squeeze her way
through. Sometimes, if you say it just right, you make it
true– take, for instance, Ana Bolena, in mini, the king’s itty-bitty
member pinched between her fingers, as immovable, as crafty
as the needles she might use to stitch her falcon crests– to hell

with pomegranates, see they burst and wither, wasted seed
             on my chamber’s marble floors– Cherie, J’adore– comes crackling
from her painted, pallid lips. My big fat governor is once again in fits,
his armor barely fits, behind his cheeseblock head the hanging flag,
Liberty and Ceres bound and gagged, the horsehead, disembodied, waits
to land once more (and squarely) in Sinatra’s bed, its Egyptian cotton
2000 threadcount sheets, Look, ok? My big fat governor does not know

Deceit, because when Deceit comes knocking, he dons a masque, he throws
a carnevale– With you, I am another, I do not know myself, Henry whispers
to his Ana from his imagined secret safety, a bridge of perfect love on which

he will one day plant her bloody head, its lips still moving, invite the world to see.

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About evanduyne

I'm assistant professor of writing at Stockton University, where I'm also affiliated faculty in the Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies program. I work on Sylvia Plath, contingent faculty, and creative writing around trauma and domestic violence.
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