Two bubble-headed lovers
joined by a spring
clasp each other on my desk.
He has his arms propped up
& his legs together.
She has her legs spread wide
& her arms crossed coolly under her head.

If I squeeze their Lucite legs,
he seems to pump against her thighs,
(though he has no penis)
& she, in her transparent plastic passion,
coldly receives him
(though she has no cunt).

It is only a toy,
a silly Lucite gewgaw,
a glorified paperclip
bought at a glorified
paperclip store.

But he has an air bubble
where his heart should be
& she a larger one
where her womb would be,
& no matter how many poems
I clasp between their empty heads
their lovemaking will never change
until the plastic melts,
or they both are

broken.

© Erica Mann Jong

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