Figures

More apparent than a Hindoo goddess 
Blanche Dumas's body sprouted surplus leg, 

breasts, and genitalia though everyone really 
possesses supernumerary parts 

attempting synecdoche. Blanche 
could practice coitus in both openings, 

in both, realize arousal. Lucky girl—
but what of the wife who did not know to spread 

both pairs of legs? who did not try to remain 

in the little apartment with area rugs 
and willow porcelain platters—what of 

the one, who in seeking her nerve endings, 

sought boy lovers who might place fingertips 
on her nipples, kiss her like they kiss 

girls? Why couldn't she stay in the bed 

when the husband turned from her limbs 
with their monstrous surplus need to draw 

endless affection that even numerous boys 
could not finally fulfill with their earnest suck—

why couldn't she stay with her 
stunning need to consume before being eaten 

finally by that appetite called family? Myrtle Corbin 
from Texas, double-bodied from the waist down, 

gave birth to three children from one vagina, two 
from the second. Did one body want 

the other to go away, to not attract or 

is that never an issue for the twinned—I cannot 

imagine not, as I rise to leave the bedclothes 

folded over the husband who otherwise deals go-fish 
with one daughter, plays squash with the older, 

buys them chocolate squares but cannot know 

what to make of the parasitic body dangling 
from my pelvis. Do it, I could instruct. 

Do the monster you married or I'll leave for good. 

Though I wonder if I ever remained 
after the ceremony of champagne and pastries— 

I apologize for using real persons 
to illustrate this wife's predicament, and yet—

imagine her imagination conflicted because 

when she pees she pees from two holes at once. 

Which is only human. Which even the midwife, 
not so stupid really, who tossed the visible figure 

under the bed and ran out the door, knew 

in her adequate heart (this, the sideshow after all). 

Will the husband finally notice, say, get lost, 
but leave the door ajar, sensing he too 

trails a duplicate appendage—

or lives like Johnny Eck, born with half a body 

which makes one wonder 
at the photograph of such a robust chest 

how he defecated? how 

he hopped on the piano bench 

in the sea breeze of his parents' summer cottage, 

doors closed on the neighboring girls—

how he loved with more than his heart? 

Perhaps all my questions are the reason 

I told one boy lounging on a train platform, 
the boy I loved, that couples part more often 

at this opening of the millenium because 
fewer believe in the existence of a heaven 
and why, after confusing lack or excess, should we?