Oedipus Blues

It's depressing to realize that
your whole life,
or one aspect of it at least,
has already been written;
scripted by some long-dead Greek dude.
To see that you really would like to
yank open your mother's snatch,
squinch in your head,
and wriggle your way back up
into her womb,
like some breach baby in reverse.
What's even worse is to know
that to your mother, this is
an acceptable state of affairs.
It's like when you were three
and you played that game with mom
where you buried yourself head-first,
curled up in your fetal pajamas,
into the warm porridge-bowl space
defined by her open lap;
like the bugs you collected in jars
that rolled themselves into
blissfully slumbering balls
until the coast was clear.

The second chapter of the story
finds you choking on amniotic fluid
as you hack your way out of Grendel's lair,
axe swinging, breathless with your
very right to be.
All the while with one fearful eye
on the shiny table laid out for you
by lizard-mom
with sweet gooey custard and
bologna sandwiches dripping mayonnaise,
cartoons and comic books
and a soft bed to sleep in til noon.

The third act directs you to
join the world of the fathers
and dance Achilles' sun-dance
but you've sprained your ankle
and the men don't recognize you
in your mother's wig and dress,
and furthermore, it's too dark to see your feet
and you appear to be walking on
the surface of the moon.

So now you're just this drawing in a book,
peeled off the page and flapping about,
and this goddess comes along
and blows you back up,
inflates you like a balloon
into three dimensions.

So you marry her.

And imagine your surprise
when you wake up the next morning
with an evil hag next to you in bed;
Baba Yaga or the Wicked Witch of the West
like in some fucking fairy tale,
and she's got your mother's face
and your mother's voice,
and the pussy with teeth
opens you up and sucks you back in.

David W. Aronson
May 2002