“In a word, you would have two backs, so to speak; but, at the same time, also, two fronts (side fronts): for what is it that makes the front of a man—what, indeed, but his eyes? ... Look your last, now, on these venerable hooded heads, while they yet lie together; for one will soon sink, unrecorded, in the sea; the other will not be very long in following.” —Moby Dick, Ch. 74
Hair inside me and nails inside me, a creature like a vole Spending months plotting and burrowing out. Sometimes I Gasp; I want to ask the gas station attendant, the person Giving me trouble at the pharmacy, Don’t you know There are eyes inside me? I can see the inside of myself And watch from outside and inside as we grow. Two Brains floating. Forty claws. Get thee away. Other Times I hurl and hurl, and nothing comes. Three months Of sickness like being a whaler at sea on the hunt For something I can’t see, only feel, enormous underneath, Somewhere between god and monster and nothing yet at all Might kill me, but the beauty—I’m turning Ahab Who swallowed a watermelon seed— I was warned. My eyes, my new beard Reveal me. I hold a second, secret face, Unknown even to me—like that Of a clock that keeps its own time, slows its tick each day— If Ahab Could become the whale then part ways—yes, two-headed, Double-pronged approach of before. Yes, Yes, love is an ugly science: And I could harpoon it— The whole swooping cape of bloody aftermath—a mean relief In knowing what’s next—an arrival Into what? into who? Two. A years’ long tracing of it away From here, from near; the both of us then, seeing Only once again, out to sea.