Ventriloquist
I remember that summer
when she’d pull out Charlie -
which was what she affectionately
called my prick -
& being an artist,
she’d draw a face on it.
Then, without moving her lips,
she’d go to work:"Hello, how’re you?
My name’s Charlie."The first time, I laughed.
It was like meeting a stranger.
We stared at each other."What do you do?
What’s your name?"I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
After a while,
Charlie started taking over.
He was the center of attention,
the life of the party.
He’d stay up all night.
Next morning, she’d ring me:
"How’s Charlie?
"Are you looking after him?"
Sure. . . sure, I’d say,
giving him a reassuring pat.
He was the picture of confidence.
He gave me a helluva time.
One day, inexplicably,
she added eyelashes, a beauty spot
& bright-red lipstick.
The transformation was remarkable.
Charlie had changed into a woman.
It called me "big boy" in a squeaky voice;
it pouted & pulled faces.
I blushed.
The rest of me was speechless.
Then it became political.
Overnight I became a total shit;
a chauvinist pig.
It wanted to know
what kind of relationship is this, anyway?
It chastised me for not being able
to see beyond the end of my dick.
Later, the ventriloquist split,
taking her paints, her pens,
her mandolin & clothes.
"You never talk to me anymore,"
she said.
"So long."
She left Charlie behind.
He slept all day;
the old eloquence was gone.
I couldn’t put words in his mouth.
Then his face disappeared
entirely.
It was a shock at first, but
I survived.
Now, taking a piss, sometimes,
I actually smile, remembering
those days & nights of indelible lust
when love was neither deaf nor dumb
nor altogether blind.