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 The person gazing at this page before you had really amazing eyes:
blue the way the Caribbean is blue that first minute off the plane
 to someone who grew up in Jersey. Anyway, it's good you're
here. The truth is I've been lonely, crawling up and down the page
at night.
Life is like this boomerang: you get hurled out, and everything is
fresh, then you hit forty, begin to arc back to the hand
that flung you from the womb, the Lord's hand, and then it's
all re-run. I know I'm complaining, and that it's
but please, forgive me, because complaining is like sex for old people.
Have you ever cringed with your whole body, been so filled with shame
you wanted to wriggle out of yourself, like a python in a forest, like
the snake that betrayed Eve. No one ever mentions
how the snake apologized, how he tried to make it up to them, how the
Lord punished the snake too, said I will fill you
     with so much shame and self-hatred you will wriggle out of yourself
every six months, just like a man's penis
. It's true: twice a year men wake and find nothing
in their boxers except the empty skin of their runaway fallacies.
Anyway, 1875, a Civil War vet from Virginia, gets off a boat
in England, and everyone calls him Yankee
. He cringes, snarls, I ain't no Yankee, I killed Yankees
, but after a month he begins to take it,
the way we all will take the gray hairs in our underpants, the ring of
our anus loosening, our rocket ship struggling to leave
the atmosphere. Now if you would just lean forward a little, and drag
your fragrant strands over my voracious grief. 
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Author:McDaniel, Jeffrey
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Nov 1, 2012
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