A constrained poem I wrote for The Stonefence Review‘s Spring 2013 publication.
I admit that, in the night, I stole
Into your room, plucked a
Hair from your pillow and
Sent it —midnight airmail— to a
Lab in Tanzania. I’m sorry, but
I just had to know the sequence of
Your soul.
They say you
Can’t curl your
Tongue, but you
Can wiggle your ears;
That you hate
Apples, fancy
Goulash
Grudgingly;
That you
Can’t quite believe
That there’s life
After death.
They say: you make
A mean omelette, but
That your
Galantines
Chaud-froid
Congeal, every
Time. You’re
Good
At
T
A
G
Cause you’ve
An
Antelope’s speed (
That’s your
Argentinian blood,
Apparently.)
And you
Care so much it
Aches:
About
The starving in
Africa;
About the penguins
Global warming’s
Going to melt;
About the
Children on the
Corner selling lemonade;
About the scantily-
Clad models in
The magazines — You’ll
Always take
The penultimate
Cookie, leaving
The last for me; You’ll
Chase a stranger’s
Gecko all
Through town
To return it
To his arms.
They say evolution’s
Grown your
Third toe
A quarter
Cm longer
Than the average —
And that’s just
The first page,
There’s another
Thousand, if you
Care to take a
Gander.