Earl Lee
The
Strangest MRDP I Ever Did See
“They can’t separate
probably....”
—Robert Hass’ “Dragonflies Mating”
One day walking in a
tangled wood
Past the cool stream
Past the weeping stand of willows
Under the warm sun, beaming down,
I saw them.
They lay there, almost
helpless,
Writhing in the agony of the damned,
Angels,
Two of them, joined at the hip,
The strangest MRDP I ever did see on earth.
And what was really
strange,
About angels, I mean,
Was they have no breasts,
Not even the merest vestigial Vestal vessels for the
Milk of human kindness....
Looking at them is hard on the eyes ‘cause bisexually
They look, one way, male
And, another way, female
And even the (I think) female has breasts no bigger
Than a double AA cup, like a Pre-teenager
And the (I think) male looked like a boy
With a caved-in sunken chest and sticky-outee nipples
Like a bitch that just gave birth last week.
Their skin
was slickly white, like a marbleized plaster bust
And the rock-like flesh did not give at all
To the pressure of the rocks and leaves and sticks
That were under them, pushing up, as they thrashed around.
But this same marble skin was covered with honey,
At least it looked like honey, or perhaps it was
The yellowed bee-extruded licorice-looking Ambrosial
Sweat of Angels
Who, flying in the night, connect (by accident)
Crashing together like blind seagulls (at least
That’s the story they’ll tell later).
But here they were, stuck together like two dogs
Caught and helpless in their passion, needing a bucket of water
Thrown
on them.
And as they rolled
across the grass, the leaves
Stuck to their waxy, honeyed limbs, like rose petals
Clinging to the bees that had assaulted them (sexually).
Taking pity on their
sufferings, I found a long limb
Broken in a storm from an old elm (useless for a fireplace)
And, raising
it over my head, brought it down across their
Head&shoulders repeatedly,
again and again, until
In more than mortal pain&anguish, they pulled
apart
And then, without a by-your-leave, or thanks (to me) of any kind
They sprouted enormous wings and flapping
Lifted themselves into the
empty sky.
Nothing else of note
happened that day
Except my hands—even to this day—have the smell
Of burnt cat-piss, just like an elm branch thrown in the fire.
You don’t believe me?
Here, smell my finger.
Note:
Eric Dutton suggests that “MRDP” stands for Mystical Realization of
Divine Providence, but the reader can choose whatever phrase seems
appropriate.
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