Rafflesia Arnoldii

A hysterical lipstick smack bloodies the backside

of a perfume-soaked missive

posted to me by a smitten bovine blob of a teenaged girl,

asking if I want to go steady, and providing me with her digits

so I can call her to accept this generous offer.

The note closes with the words “Good Night,”

the two words underscored multiple times,

the pen nearly tearing through the tulip-bordered stationery.

Twenty-odd years later I still shudder

when I picture that sticky smile, shy but smug,

so certain I would return the affection

which she confessed to, with the encouragement 

of a counselor, after one of our group therapy sessions.

That bloated blossom, that overripe fruit 

fairly bursting its skin to reveal

the pungent mush festering within.

Even my adolescent self, so sweaty and desperate

for a taste of flesh, was repulsed.

I wonder how many of the girls I’ve asked out

-or, worse, lunged at- over the years, were similarly disgusted

but were too polite to say so,

too composed to show their discomfort.

Perhaps they were just so appalled they were struck dumb

as I was that day, stammering some feeble rejection 

while the counselor nodded in support of our efforts 

to communicate like grown-ups.

I tried to summon some feeling of compassion 

but couldn’t get past her eclipsing dimness. 

The orbiting satellite crashes through 
the thick, noxious atmosphere of Ishtar, of Venus.

And when, on a rainy group field trip

to a music festival, I brusquely repelled her attempts

to force me to stand with her beneath her umbrella,

her pained expression made me wince with pity

but no real sympathy. As much as I loathed

and wanted to destroy myself, I still felt superior

to this lisping behemoth.

Years later, she came into the store where I worked.

Waddling ahead of her was a man, possibly

her father, who was even more enormous. 

Her eyes had sunken into her face

like the cushion buttons of an old couch.

Mercifully, she didn’t recognize me.

That night, the images rushed at me unbidden:

helplessly, I pictured her plump fingers 

probing the folds of her own moist flesh, 

her lips puckering to kiss that reeking sheet 

of stationery, stuffing it into the envelope. 

The fat slug of her tongue, licking the stamp. 

What would it be like to be intimate with this creature,

this woman who will never have a poem 

written about her, much less a poem steeped in passion,

dripping with desire, swollen with love?

For all I know, her unlucky life might be long since over,

her corpulence whittled to a few dense twigs,

unplucked petals fallen from the empty stem, 

etc. I could lie and claim I still possess

that letter, and that the passing years 

have served to made me softer. 
I could lie and say that if I saw her 
now, I’d take her puffy hand in mine

and squeeze it tight, and give to her 
my warmest, gentlest gaze, my kindest smile.