FCML

At the commencement of it
you are asked,
“What will it be? Do you want to
fuck, cuddle, or make love?”

The question shocks you: no voice
has ever spoken to you in such
a clinical manner, an inquisitive
manner, a manner that seems
more suited to philosophy
than to — whatever you decide;

more suited
to what rhythm
will be played than to
where it ends.

But there it is, hanging out there,
a question you have never
stopped to think about
ahead of time,
one that you realize lay
at the heart of most of your doings.

Now? Now you care only that
the angels, those marvelous demons
described in white as opposed
to red or black,

come to greet you as you enter.
They come up and they don’t care
who asked the question. You don’t care
that you never gave an answer.
There is a decided lack of care
all around for this one.

You aren’t surprised, really —
it has been a while since it mattered.
You prefer sleeping to everything else.
You prefer a lot of things to this one.

So: to the question. How to answer it?
It seemed to hold some importance
to them. It seemed to be
an apple like the Apple from the Tree
of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.
Not that a type of fruit was ever identified —

you could look it up. We have named it
an Apple in folk wisdom, but you go,
look it up; I’ll wait. I’ll wait until
there is no good answer to their question

and I will go back to sleep
without giving an answer. If I’m going
to die anyway, what difference
will it make?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T