The Sin of Onan

By Lourd Ernest H. De Veyra

nuestra seniora angel dela guardia-
the azure diorama of early September dawns
and unchecked perversions
leaving criminal crimson stains
on her pajama o mama
papa’s got a brand new dilemma.
o what to do, lost in this bright bodyscape,
in the babel of lunar curvatures
and a thousand labia
creampied with ejected of transient desire,
gelatinous seed of life, the gravity
of the steady, pearly trickle
dripping down incandescent thighs.
lick, shoot, suck, think, thrust.
trust in the intimacy of the palm,
each careful stab-and-stroke
nailing eyeballs and nerve-endings to the wall.
use the left hand if you like.
close your eyes and it becomes that
of a stranger. oh hello. need help with that?
pizza delivery girl. nurse. gym instructor.
hot teacher, barely legal student.
lose faith in human love.
the fecundity of the imagination:
little details that stick to the mind
like used Kleenex: creaking of beds,
wet slapping sounds of pelvis on buttocks,
slow sinuous slink of pink o mama
sinking into pink, silent blare of tv screens
perennially wary of the knock
that could douse the intimacy of ritual.

The other sin of onan was this:
to make love to a memory,
one that curls around your neck like a whisper,
that sticks a tongue into your ear,
and slips a hand inside your pants—
a hand so soft o mama and so cold.


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