Riffing on a familiar story, Steven Cordova presents a narrative of disease and duality which is both achingly beautiful and oddly sweet.
The Death of Jekyll & Hyde
Hyde would swear it was Jekyll, how he whistled
at passing women.
Jekyll would swear it was Hyde, how he cruised
street corners, subway cars …
At which point Hyde would reprise the age-old subject
of Jekyll’s poor table manners.
Things would get completely out of hand when, finally,
Jekyll called Hyde a faggot.
Yet the relationship went on like this-a he-said-she-said
of sorts. The relationship
became a story & the story will continue to spin us even
as we continue to spin it.
No one really cares much which of the two men’s sleeping
around got the one body infected—
Jekyll? Hyde? How could it matter? It was bound to
happen, inevitable.
What was sweet was how close Jekyll & Hyde became,
how in the end,
save for Jekyll’s dog & Hyde’s cat, they preferred each
other’s company
in much the same way the waistcoat loves waist,
the carnation loves the buttonhole,
& in the deep way and everlasting way the dandy loves
the rough trade.
***
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“The dandy loves the rough trade”. Very nice.