Murder Two, Winter 2015


                                                A gas station keychain reads:
                                               We’ll get along just fine as soon as you realize I’m God.

I sit on a pink throne made of seashells. 
A servant boy plucks grape
after grape from the green
cluster, feeds them to me
as if each bite is my last,
and slowly, fearing I’ll take
his fingertips off, he drops them
into my mouth. I nibble
his ear at night. Often I call
forth a new one to my bed,
but this blonde, big-nosed 
boy’s my favorite. The men
fight when I let them choose.
Why fight when one can
fuck? I require no praise—
I cringe to hear, day
in, day out, a blubbering fool.
A TV blares, flickers, 
while on the couch,
I invite Billy or Joey between
my thighs—a raspberry.
I can’t see or hear. My entire being,
a clitoris. The boy, now 
a spider, black, the size 
of a recliner, dines on me;
he weaves my pubic hair 
into a web. Ensnarled,
I liken to a praying mantis 
—long neck, huge claws—
he, my mate. This is subterfuge. 
I’m your Jesus, your god, 
so when you pray, pray to me. 
Press this seashell to your ear. Listen
to the ocean’s voice calling
my name: ________.

               The artist's space.

Cat Dixon

Crow Hollow 19

About the poem:

The key chain I mention in the poem is one I had on my key ring since I turned 16. Most of us feel invincible as teenagers and it summed up my attitude towards everyone especially men. After going through a painful divorce with two small children, I took it up off my key ring in 2010 and left it on a table in the room where I taught Fundamentals of Poetry. The next week it was gone. I assume it was picked up by a student--hopefully he or she was young and still full of fire. I no longer feel like a God, yet I wrote this poem to remember that time when I felt as if I had men at my feet. I no longer want to be worshiped by men. Instead, I want partnership. 

Crow Hollow Books