Paisley Rekdal
Intimacy

How horrible it is, how horrible

that Cronenberg film where Goldblum’s trapped

 

with a fly inside his Material

Transformer: bits of the man emerging

 

gooey, many-eyed; bits of the fly

worrying that his agent’s screwed him–

 

I almost flinch to see the body later

that’s left its fly in the corner, I mean

 

the fly that’s left its body, recalling too

that medieval nightmare, Resurrection,

 

in which every soul must scurry

to rejoin the plush interiors of its flesh,

 

pushing through, marrying

perhaps indiscriminately

 

because Heaven won’t take what’s only half:

one soul blurring forever

 

into another body.

If we can’t know the boundaries between ourselves

 

in life, what will they be in death,

corrupted steadily on each side

 

by maggot, rain and superstition, by affection

that depends on memory to survive?

 

People should keep their hands to themselves

for the remainder of the flight:

 

who needs another’s talent, good looks,

or insecurities?

 

Darling, what I love in you I pray will always stay

the hell away from me.

 
Found In Volume 38, No. 02
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Paisley Rekdal
About the Author

Paisley Rekdal is the author of a book of essays, The Night My Mother Met Bruce Lee, and four books of poetry, A Crash of Rhinos, Six Girls Without Pants, and The Invention of the Kaleidoscope, and most recently, Imaginary Vessels (Copper Canyon, 2016).