hunchback

moments of damnation and moments of glory
tick across my roof.

the cat walks by
seeming to know everything.

my luck has been better, I think,
than the luck of the gladiola,
although I am not sure.

I have been loved my many women,
and for a hunchback of life,
that’s lucky.

so many fingers through my hair
so many hands grasping my balls
so many shoes tilted sideways across my bedroom
rug.

so many eyes looking,
indented into a skull that will carry all those
eyes into death,
remembering.

I have been treated better than I should have
been–
not by life in general
or the machinery of things
but by women.

and the other
(by women): me
standing in the bedroom alone
doubled
hands holding the gut–
thinking
why why why why why why?

women gone to men like pigs
women gone to men with hands like dead branches
women gone to men who fuck badly
women gone to things of men
women gone
gone
because they must go
in the order of
things.

the women know
but more often chose out of
disorder and confusion.

they can kill what they touch.
I am dying
but not dead.