The apple of my eye is the apple that I eat
and shit daily. And the next day shit again.
I take the sins of men with me
to the cross and the slit. I’m not that strong.
I stare at myself: splayed arms, dangling prick –
what a grim comedy I must come to terms with.
And you, the heat: the heat: the heat
when you press up into my tongue and teeth.
I would be a banshee were it not for the wrong sex organs.
Funny how a penis stands between me and what I want:
to know what a belly is good for, to see the love
that fails to faze me turn solid into the bone and horror show
that is the life a child, any child, is born to live.
Your pussy splits before me, a chicken’s breast
under a cleaver: boneless, full of fat flesh
to gnaw and swallow down in the name of health, need.
All the rot of hetero love in these dull and damaged times
trickles from you. God help me. Could I dive-bomb
into your uterus? Could I sneak my way back up into before?
And come out just like you, carrying the little zero of our world?
Matthew Kosinski is studying poetry in the New School’s Creative Writing MFA program. You can find him online at MatthewKosinski.com
Featured painting is The Flirtation – Eugen de Blaas