Mooncalf

By Dr. Dick B. Roman

So even now I am the mooncalf,
Hatched from a leathered sack,
With Chernobyl distinction.
They tried to drown me in the
Love Canal, because of my
Prehensile sixth fingers which
Coil around your knees like tongues,
To make you open and twitch
Like a cuckoo clock, every AM
First-thing. Trumpeting the dawn
In birdsong. May you coo like a pup,
As I come to suckle on your toes and
Earlobes, like Romulus on the
Seventh Hill. These are things that
Are your guise, that I must
Disimpact prior to procedure.
Stripped and flicked
With language, darting like the bait
Of an angler fish. Knotted pinings
Are nothing now, this pulpy smell,
So ancient on the stove before the
Dinner bell. In this hunger there is
No time for grace.