Don’t be fooled by the title; this is not a Christmas poem. Jim Elledge channels John Berryman in this unsettling persona piece.
—
He Sees You When You’re Sleeping
I is a lunatic, locked up in a padded cell. Watch close: I
bounces off walls, I drools, I plays with himself in front of
others and locks eyes with the prettiest of them. His Come
on, come on meets their gaping mouths with a leer.
I is no saint embossed on a holy card, standing on a cloud,
eyes turned heavenward, hands clasped together,
prayerfully. I is no demon, but a daredevil.
Only an audience full of ooohs and aaahs can create a
saint: applause-applause balcony to orchestra pit as flames
engulf the stake, as the head’s lopped off, as the skin’s
peeled away, the eyes plucked out, the spikes hammered
into ears.
Pssssst. Listen: I fucked O one Thanksgiving night. O
squealed. I grunted. At most, a few seconds was all it took.
Then they flip-flopped: I / O / I.
I was no saint. Here’s his story….
Once upon a time, a man held I down behind closed doors
and did him. I held his breath. I never made a sound. I
thought he bled. I checked later and found he hadn’t. I
forgot every second of it. I forgot it over and over, year
after year. Amnesia was I’s Hail-Mary. I has no childhood.
It went up in smoke, straight to God’s nostrils, who
mumbled, It is good, through his Santa Claus beard.
Today, an orderly brings I to the day room. The phone on
the wall squawks like a drunken parrot. I gets to it first. A
tinny voice says, “Fuck I—and the lonesome cowboys he
road into town on” and hangs up before I can say a word.
***
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