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Body Jewelry & Piercings

My Alarm Clock Molests Me

My Alarm Clock Molests Me
pillow with ear hole
Image by David Schroeder
My Alarm Clock Molests Me

In this desert dream of cactus and clay dirt,
a lizard scrambles into its dark hole.

And when I awake, my wife’s big toe
is buried in my ass crack, the scales of her feet
like an old snake’s skin.

What happened to the alarm clock of love—
the snooze button of her lips that I loved to press
over and over to rest a little longer
in the soft pillow of her kisses?

Where’s my buttered toast and carafe of orange juice,
early light dripping through blinds—
her painted toes tipping across a cold wooden floor,
balancing infatuation and a breakfast tray?

These days I awake to a licked finger in my ear,
a pencil drilling in my nostrils, a high heel
buried in my bottom.

I’m tired too, she says, It’s not fair that you can nap.

And what is a “good” marriage if not
the equal suffering of two souls?

If her heart stops, I should die. If my brain fades,
she should forget the spelling of her own name.

Without equality there is oppression,
and without naps, there is finally rest
from her Q-tip probes and thumbs-up enemas.

So today, I stay awake like a soldier in the shallow
trenches of a foreign war, the dark sky, a new galaxy—
and beyond it— a black hole that no one dares near.

Sam Pierstorff, poet
David Schroeder, photographer