There is finally a shrine beside my bed,
a monument to commemorate
the courageous toys that fought
and fell under my commanding hand.
I had pictured a museum, but
had to build a mausoleum instead.
My version of the sad-angel, limp-winged statue
found in doomed romantic graveyards stands
by the foot of the bed, clasping a silver
three-speed bullet vibe in one hand,
and its crotch in the other,
grieving for the little deaths cut short.
To my left,
a spinster aunt's mauve hat-box --
for the electric dynamos.
The one whose voltage eluded me
until I realized
that the sparks between my legs were not
symbolic flames of rapture.
The one whose cord snapped when I
looked down at the cable
snaking out from my cunt
and jumped up, alarmed at
remembering the spaghetti I had left
boiling for a quickie.
The one that sounded like a power drill,
and made me feel like the heroine
of a slasher movie --
you know, the sexpot who always gets it first.
The one whose optional attachments required assembly
that made solving a Rubik's Cube look easy
(I ended up using the Cube that night).
To my right,
the wireless wonders
piled inside two plump canvas bags.
The dual-action whimsy figure
that distracted me so
that I was mourning,
mourning for that childhood
television show.
The disembodied dick that stood
and seemed to mock with a grim challenge
("Can you find the rest of me?").
The threaded pearls
that proved to be a treasure
in reverse, smooth squatters
that refused to leave
their newly settled cove
and had to be evicted by hired hands.
And at the altar, by my headboard,
rest the bibles: the catalogues
whose descriptions
I have memorized like scripture,
whose images
have joined into a mental collage
as breathtaking and revealing
as a cathedral's stained glass window.
The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux