You distract me from all that is
Virtuous, dozing in the home you built me
By the nooks of your warmth
That keep me up all night, and in your
Bed all day— a fly humming itself to sleep eternal,
Gorging on the dew of human comforts—
Original seine, a waking-sleep
Nothingness where I can conquer the known
World, explore the unknown and question
The things that I’ve done and haven’t
Yet with the length of my days— messiahs seeking
Sinners for whom to immolate.
It pains me denying you of unpredictable whims,
childlike cravings for unrepeated joys; gouging a rib
From my side to murder my younger brother,
Exposing what’s left of a body you’ve claimed as your own,
Protecting it from age through knowledge of good and evil,
From senility by incessant worrying,
My soul from a hell lurking in the looming darkness we can’t control.
Your navel is the essence of a Mississippi slithering through a land missing of names,
Wild, unhindered by progress, swayed by forces beyond its body, but brimming within it—
A mystery I miss, misplaced in the things I’ve learned to find important—
Outpouring its thirst in me; restoring
Silence serene, my sweet siren of sleep.
You are bad for me, my heart,
My sanity, my strength are no match for your coquettish craft; dying
Simply in this instance eating fruit forbidden with you, for an Eden
Lived in endlessness, joy, perfection.
Wu, Samuel. Apple Polisher. Los Angeles, 1947.