Haltered Top

by Eldon (Craig) Reishus

Behind the garage
beside the Minnesota
I melded a carp's skull,
some mallard feathers,
and the cool clay
of a rusted wormcan's shadow
perfect for my hand.

My first tit.
Unearthly rapture.
My first artistic feel.

Ten thousand miles downstream
meanwhile across the Atlantic.
Small world. Where words,
disentangled from my mother-tongue,
inflect a brave new social life
in terms of German case and number:

Brust, Brüste, Brüsten.
Mops, Möpsen, Möpsen.
Apfel, Apfel, Apfeln,
Klopfse, Klopfse, Klopfsen,
Busen, Busen, Busen.

Yet still my dreams are suckled to it,
my first tit, unweaned from the nipple
I neglected to invent.