Your phallus,
So stout in its erectness,
A statue of greatness,
Plants a warmth inside my lower depths.
Your shaft,
A willing member of our union,
Free of scruples and neurosis,
Acts on the purest animal lust, not love.
Your meat,
Too proud in its prime,
Stands free, above all other meagre offerings,
Takes what it wants without hesitation.
A beautiful poem by Donna Pucciani that expresses everything I love about Chekhov with staggering simplicity.
I’ve always loved Chekhov,
the manic visitations, the incessant
comings and goings.
I’ve never had to abandon villa
or watch an orchard fall to the axe.
But I have known the languid whistle
of a train in the night . . .
–excerpt from “For Anton” in Hanging Like Hope on the Equinox by Donna Pucciani (virtual artists collective, Chicago 2013). First published in Tribeca.
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