The Man Who Called Me a Brick

The man who called me a brick
is a horrible angel: the sort who handle Annunciations
or come Ezekiel-style - for each feather, an eye.
Peacock-seraph, he's not the kind who perch on phone wires
snickering when you've had a hard night
nor the type who just drop by for shade and olives
hoping for a fatted Something, and then vanish
to gasped cries: Who was that winged guy?

The man who called me a brick
lives on Moon Island; he's still a millionaire
there. He dreams
big; he sleeps with brocaded Florentines
Victorian con-men and Coyote in white linen.
They're always crammed, these beds
in which he snores like Thor
and sometimes coils about me.

The man who called me a brick
swims like a sea-snake through Torbay:
the sheerest greenblue teardrop
of something huge and hideously cold.
He loves to freeze and sweat
and boasts of Facing Truth
as a male drill involving razors.
He's sure shaving is different.

I'll grant less blood's been drawn by lipstick
yet mascara holds its own
hairy perils, and surely I've done still more
mirror-time than he: not to make myself
presentable, but to make myself me
the face always in question;
nothing presupposed but daily mystery:
What will it be?

The man who called me a brick
screams at me:

1995, 2011 Katherine Anne Harris. All Rights Reserved.

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