Noumenal

by Sergio A. Ortiz

I lost the taste for your Cyclops stare
a little before we left
for our Sunday morning walk
on Pluto’s moon.
I discovered a heap of letters
under your pillow.
They were ready
to become accents,
syllables with alien rhythms,
words, similes that challenge
the imagination.
You reached my tower
with your cock throbbing,
spouting lubricant—fallen fruit
of your willful tree.
I asked you a third time,
what did you call a home?
Because the third time
is the one that gets conquered,
the one that does not shoot
itself in the heart. Tell me the truth,
where do I find the boundaries
of your castle?