Two Poems
Andrew Demcak


The nurse brings this green drink, all sedative.
I sink down in the sperm fluid of it,
my comet's tail. I peel from my pale skin,
hugging my pills. Just give me a minute --
Doctor -- to tuck me in, wipe off this thought.
The valium, four tender babies, I
recognize their attractive blankness. I
beg for such keys to employ. But when I

arrive, nothing awaits me here: no name,
no hospital like a humble toy, no
worms of cocks, the silky sweetness of them.
The Lethe is my mother now, brought to
me, serpentine, through the greenery, as
I travel lost around the vacant lot.


The strain of rainbow shouldered like sin.
At this facet the lord separates us:

one-fathered, but two-sexed. The flag
stirs the eye. Our pride is a concentrate,

as am I: jade, a stone wall polished
by the sun, its warm spread of minerals,

the chandelier of heaven hanging in
a sky indefatigable, the lash

of a peacock, a shifting triangle,
vestigial pink and inscrutable,

our cut-sleeve brothers and Sapphic lovers,
each as jeweled and blood-vesseled.