We Golems

It is not as theory holds
That there are infinitely small time-units
Between cardinal time-marks

But rather laundry chutes, firehouse poles
And rabbit holes transecting
Each of these points;

Not the ticking of the second hand
But a third and last hand
That runs directly through both sides

Of the clock's two faces,
The seen and the blind, where
You find yourself among the undead:

On occasion visible at Stag's Ditch
And not smelling very nice at all.
Also, the legends are partly correct

In that you will "dine on human flesh"
Though it will not be the red, viscera-strewn event
You've been led to expect.

Rather, you will plunge through
A sweet and yielding architecture
With delicious strata,

Entirely unanticipated by a corpse
Such as yourself, until your garters
Snag on a sugar flower,

The tassels on your breasts
Become sticky with icing, and,
Running perilously low on oxygen

You leap out of your birthday cake
To the delight of the gathered crowd,
Quite as surprised as they are.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Demos All rights reserved
from The Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission