The Damn Cast

It's a barracuda, you say,
that attacked, swallowed your leg
and choked to death, still
attached. Its moby prick,
the plaster caster's bone-dry dream.
It's a beef Wellington with your thigh
as tenderloin; or a two foot
long red-hot getting stale in the bun.

You can no longer sneak from behind
to tickle or seize. For ten minutes
I hear you thumping up the staircase,
a dinosaur in lead boots,
before you collapse in the chair
face red as borscht and puffing steam.

Each street bristles with impaling machines.
I say, take care; yet we can't
love in armor, can't dance inside tanks,
can't wave at the world from a barnacle
shell. The same nerves that melt
us to butterscotch brandy sundae's
scream pain hot as laser drills.
Inside that long egg, you atrophy.

~ Marge Piercy