« Jalousie », « From the Song of Songs »

American poetry

Friday 1 February 2008, by Nick Tosches

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I could take this knife

and drive it down with might

into that delicate lovely concave place,

that imprint of the angel’s kiss,

incisura jugularis, softness

supra manubrium:

jugular notch, best-put of all.

And with all force, could rend

good and deeply downward,

between breasts, through bone,

heart, womb, viscera,

and all that makes

a gutted thing,

to frenulum,

dainty wild strummèd thing,

lyre of holy secret song,

and sistrum, too, of Isis and of you.

Jagged down,

butchered through,

the whole of you a cunt,

from that softness—notch,

best-put of all—to where the knife

can move no more:

it is, as the true god spoke,

the only cure for what destroys me,

for which I have no words but for your name.

And the warm water falling

on my hands and arms

is good.

Hike up those pantyhose,

get down on your back.

Raise your left knee to your mouth

and hold it there.

Now close your eyes

and shut the fuck up.

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