In the morning my heart
breathless beneath the pressed
pillow beside me, eyes
shoved between my big toe and
the next or hiding under my grandmother's
hand-me-down bunion, hands

squarely folded under
a Zeller's white quilt that could
crush any soul except mine, "Hurry hurry " as
pieces grumble, shift and slide, while
my cunt stark out refuses to budge, taking
a non-violent stance - you have to speak

kindly to a cunt lest it snap
open and devour, so I say
please, offer promises of forbidden
delight, possibly Turkish; it lifts
one eyelid and I know I'm on the right
track. A cunt can be lonesome, withdrawn, although

she gets out daily and I translate the world in terms
she can understand so in that dank dark
place where she lives, hope in the form of light
might filter in. A cunt needs
rambling conversation, requires water, some
form of (any) love allowing

it to lay down winter roots and shoot
up in the spring, this thirsty cunt cut down
before winter while still
eager to converse with the sun, I worry
even when all my parts finally
cooperate as I sit sipping
homemade coffee brew, and my heart


swoops down to my cunt, setting down
with her a speck, gently swinging on this late
autumn veranda before which
body parts strut to work. Sometimes
a man smiles or waves, but all the while
I am thinking a cunt without
a heart might be more at peace.

Coyright Colman 2008