Orlak, where have you gone? I have searched the shimmering flames
for the timid giant of Medicine River, salesman, king of my secret heart.
His ocean-blue eyes fierce, comings and goings as mysterious as his name.
Surfing the wake of an adagio of hurt, I pile my listed hates into his cart:
Portabella mushrooms, driving to work in the snow, political pundits make me weary.
Ignorant passers-by, heat, the taste of meat, lazy writers, noisy interfering Denis Leary
and the weighted, unanticipated fist of Orlak's child pressed into my leaden womb.
