by Eileen Murphy
When the splash of your mind awoke me
I was encased in plastic
and you unwrapped me with
your teeth and your organ
like an elephant’s trunk uprooted
the hair on my head, my
prudish, blond-braided maiden
hair, and you spit out spices.
I growled at you from deep inside
my toes; you called back
like a braying tuba.
Let’s say I’m a television and you’re my remote
control. Which means you get to push my buttons.
And you can manipulate me manually
by getting up from your chair and using
your fingers. In another scenario, I have dials
instead of buttons and you gradually dial me up to
warp speed nine and we are mostly silent
except when one of us moans. Or let’s say
I’m a microwave oven and you’re a frozen
dinner. It’s my goal to warm you up, but
you must be inside me for my magic to work.
Then you’re whirled around as I heat you up, and
I beep when the timing’s right.
Photo by Eileen Murphy
A former Chicago Northsider, Eileen Murphy lives on a half acre of semi-rural property that must be mowed quite often, near Tampa, surrounded by the many wild animals of central Florida, most of them mosquitoes. She received her master’s degree from Columbia College and teaches literature at Polk State College. Eileen’s poetry is published or forthcoming in Straight Forward, ScreamOnline anthology, Clare, Two Hawks Quarterly, Obsession, Louisville Review, poetry/memoir/story, and more.