All the chores you put off —
clipping your nails,
especially the toenails now
that there’s no other man
in your bed to gripe when
they scrape. Like getting
tested. At least you don’t
have to do that anymore
— sure the bed’s
maximum occupancy
won’t change. The parts of
you, physical and ethereal,
that might urge you back
to the hunt have all been
cut off and won’t grow
back. Is this pure relief?
You have no point of
comparison by which to
confirm it. You search your
will to make sure you’re
not harboring some
perversity like missing the
suspense or the attention
and sympathy a new
positive result would
earn you. The nails are
beginning to get in your
way, guests that overstay.
As you clip in front of the
bathroom mirror, you tell
your reversed twin there’s
relief in this. And suddenly
you remember that couple
that stayed with you for a
week — a pair of freaks so
entwined they clipped and
even sometimes chewed
each other’s nails. It
revolted you at the time.