The Castle on Carol’s Wall
Set in a corner of the wall, a whorl
of towers and tasseled turrets rises in space
pastel above puffy clouds. A road to her face
is marked for the prince: the dream of every girl.
Inside she sits, an icon of beauty, her world
circumscribed. He must look up from the base
of the wall, imagine her there, begin the race
to find, claim, and praise her, his perfect pearl.
Thus she waits out her life blind to the seams
in waiting for him to call only her name,
in waiting to be his only preferred prize,
in thinking only she and only this guise—
ideal of safety, passivity—this game—
can fulfill her towering needs, her hapless dreams.
The Poster on Peter’s
It’s the curve of breasts that he can almost feel
narrowing to waist, belling deep
to hips he spans with hands—a real ideal,
every boy’s dream—that denies him sleep.
Smooth limbs encircle him, removing doubts
that she’s the one who will fulfill his quest.
Ohh, you’re good, she murmurs as she pouts,
Ohh, you’re good—the best, the best, the best.
Place plays no part in this game. His tower
is his penis—method, not monument or wall.
He wins the prize through size, not sighs; his power
has nothing in it of the woman’s crawl.
Yet she’s a dream like the castle, ever hanging
around in his head to hassle his hapless banging.
