Two Love Poems: Triple
Not Ken Follet's novel
about how the Israelis got the bomb
but my wet dream:
you and me, baby,
and the Archangel Gabriel
in a threesome.
Follet's characters don't cum quietly:
"She screamed," he writes.
But in my dream
the waters of night
rise without a sound
over your belly
while the angel fans us
with his wings.
In Follet's Triple
Israel dupes Egypt
but in my dream
I am Israel
and you are Egypt.
Your cunt is the Sinai.
And the Archangel watches over us
as we cross the valley
of the little death.
He spurts forth
as a sweat-bead,
itself a universe
ready to blow apart,
quivers
but remains intact
on your left areola.
Two Love Poems: I Love You
as much as Saddam Hussein loves power
as much as Winnie the Pooh loves honey.
Of course Saddam can't murder
his entire population. He has to pick
and choose. Pooh likewise can't get his honey
without the aid of a helium balloon.
And I can't be holding you in my arms
every second of every day. The logic
of mustard gas and honey requires
that we work in separate cities.
To remind me of the gulf between us
I bought an Iraqi dinar bill with a Saddam watermark.
I pasted it on my lampshade. There it remained
until the day you replaced it with a picture
of Pooh. Then Saddam dropped a nerve gas bomb
in the bottom drawer of my heart.
Pooh plucked the bomb out of my chest
and dipped it in a pail of honey. Saddam
is no Saladin to liberate Christopher Robin
from the tyranny of Pooh. Only the bees hope
for a quick conquest. My love, you take me higher
than an Iraqi bomber rising over Kurdistan.
The scent of you is sweeter than all the honey
in Pooh's tummy. Your honey is far sweeter.
Daniel Grossman is a graduate student in nonprofit
management at Indiana University in Indianapolis. He
has published fiction, poetry, and articles in The Danforth Review,
Konfluence, The Johns
Hopkins Magazine, Flying Island, and has work
forthcoming in Yefief.
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