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Alan Dugan - Untitled Poem - III
Work rating: Low

Why feel guilty because the death of a lover causes lust? 
It is only an animal urge to perpetuate the species, 
but if I do not inhibit my imagination and dreams 
I can see your skull smiling up at me from underground 
and your bones loosely arranged in the missionary position. 
This is not an incapacitating vision except at night, 
and not a will of constancy, nor an irrevocable trust, 
so I take on a woman with a mouth like an open wound. 
I would do almost anything to avoid your teeth in the dirt. 
She is desirable, loving, and definite, but when I feel her up 
I hesitate: I still feel the site of your absence. It is 
as large as the silence of your invitational smile 
or the vacancy open in the cage of your ribs. Fuck that, 
I say. Why be guilty for this guilt? It’s only birth control. 
Therefore I extend my hands tongue and prick to you 
through her as substitutions for the rest of my body 
in hopes that you’ll be born again as her daughter 
before I have to join you as your permanent husband, 
but I know you: you want me to come, come as I am, 
right now, without her, and to bring along a son.
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