Poem and artwork by Marge Simon

The Wedding Gift

i.

was a Kamasutra cannister
of salacious perfumes, feathers, powders,
it is our undoing...

we seed the nights with immoral acts,
with aphrodesiacs and porn films,
invite strangers to our bed
to extripate boredom.
But it never is enough--
the joys of fulfillment slip away.

One day you tell me of this cult
that foreswears sensual pleasures.
Surgery is requisite to join, for it strips light from orbs,
takes tongue, typmannium, castrates, amputates,
leaves the brain in mortal husk.

We agree to join, determine who goes first
by drawing straws. You win.

ii.

I feed you, change your diaper,
wheel you about in a baby carriage by day,
and nights, rub your torso with erotic lotions,
powder your bottom, lubricate your anus,
ravish your body with love such as never before.

Forget that cult. Expunge it from memory.
This is the height of bliss, my love,
you feel it too, don't you?

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