Untwisting Bottle Caps
by Gregory Sherl
When I rewrote the Bible I knew
I did a better job. Aardvarks
were still called aardvarks
but sex was now fucking.
Innocence was fabric softener.
Everything was synthetic
but in a good way.
I’m sorry you weren’t the last thing
that crawled out of me.
The second rib was a secret mistake.
Rub my back, give me a reason to try
a lambskin condom.
If I get it up, we’ll keep going.
If I get off, we’ll try again.
Let me be honest: I’m depressed.
I tried before but it didn’t work—
not enough water for too many pills
or not enough pills for too many
valves, the electric kind,
the motors full of motor oil,
windshield wipers, keyless entry,
an electric locomotive, all blood.
Remind me to never dream
in French again. It’s a waste of pills.
Have you seen an octopus play?
They untwist bottle caps, hide behind
rocks the same color as their skin.
They play dead so well they forget