II

When I was going (for the third time) mad,

Last Spring, alone in the house, I chose

Two small breast-like blood oranges

To butcher and ingest. They were my mother's

Breasts. They were my eyeballs. They were

My testicles put back down my mouth --

A bloody deed -- the orange juice dripping

On the knife, on my hands, on my heart,

On my immaculate 45th birthday dress

(The usual corduroy), engorging,

Slurping, in haste, lest the Eumenides

Find me, lest I hear the old hags scream

"He's murdering his mother!" lest I re-

Member Queen, our St. Bernard, the dog

We had in the Depression, who slaughtered

Sheep, slicing with her teeth the jugulars;

My father had to have her put away,

Poor dog, reverting to her nature, wild.