Femme Fatale by David Spicer

I gave you close comfort.
Please don’t grovel.
You loved yourself
too much to see my true beauty:
it destroys dreaming fools,
stupid men not thinking with their heads,

and I didn’t give you head.
If it’s any comfort,
I’ve met sillier fools.
They snivel, cry, grovel
at the sight of my beauty.
Morons like yourself.

Claim you weren’t yourself,
sweep me out of your head,
find a brilliant beauty
who’ll give you physical comfort,
but don’t let her see you grovel,
lest she, too, think you foolish.

Stop making foolhardy
choices, find your witty self,
or do let me live in your head,
and make a habit of groveling.
You won’t receive any comfort,
least of all from a beautiful

femme fatale. This is what’s beautiful:
like all men, you’re a crotch-thinking fool.
Deny that, if it makes you comfortable,
or, better yet, be selfish
like I am, escape your head
and trick women to grovel.

Make them think you’re lovers, Groveller:
then they’ll line up for your beauty.
Shake your curly blonde head
and they’ll pursue you more—the fools—
convinced you’re self-
less enough to give more than comfort.

Again, don’t grovel, you naïve fool,
know that beauty isn’t self-
less. Clear your head, give some comfort.

David Spicer
David Spicer has had poems in Chiron Review, Alcatraz, Gargoyle, In Between Hangovers, Your One Phone Call, Ploughshares, The American Poetry Review, and elsewhere. The author of Everybody Has a Story and four chapbooks, he’s the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books and is scheduled to have Limbs From a Pear Tree (Flutter Press) released in the Fall of 2017.

 

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