My Only Golem

Cursed be the one who makes a carved or molten image,

the work of the hands of an artisan, and sets it up in secret.

–Deuteronomy

Miss Nobody, sister

twin, I bequeath red plastic

funnels for breasts, hair

from the four corners

of my bed.  For your shoe

a stone that bruised

my heel, razored blood,

a dram of jealousy.  I’ll

mortar you with muck

from the River Flint, fixident,

a jigger of my lost

drawl.  Everything

I hate about myself. 

The eighteen-year fever

coiled in my bones, a hitch

in the lungs, left ear mole.

In your stomach, brick

of cornbread, capers.

For your nethers,

a mollusk shell, fly

trap, only part

of the story.

You’re the ache

& the cavity. Wire

helix of hair, willow

furl rigged with polyester

thread, taffeta rags,

shredded energy bills.

I’ll feather your brow

with mystical letters,

Kabbalah kitten, my

golem.  Marionette,

my maker and mask,

I name you Mephista.

“My Only Golem” first appeared in The Massachusetts Review, Summer 2005.