On Another Death
Laura Madeline Wiseman
In my family the colon is the first to go.
Not the heart in an irregular thump or the
brain on increasingly fewer memories but
the butt and all its embarrassing qualities.
In polite company one mustn’t ever speak
of bowel movements or dare to let one rip
which is why the elderly are cast sidelong
for a fixation on # 2s or worse, no # 2s.
I want to think there is something special
about bowels. The Egyptians thought life
was there. The Greeks never betting on the
head. Everything felt is still felt in the gut.
Nerves sending one to the bathroom or not.
No one talks about colon pleasure. I’m not
talking about fucking, but surely there is
a excruciating sweetness in the rectum.
I’m talking about that much needed shit
that cleans you out from the neck down.
The one you need the plunger for. And if
you were a mutt you wouldn’t even bother
to back scratch. I think maybe my family
hasn’t had enough of these shits so when
another colon goes I lock up a commode
and wait until all that gut pain comes out.
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J Rhodes, "Boston Memento"
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