The Soap Opera of My Body (Two-Headed Version)

               Would you make love to me if I had two heads?
I promise it’ll be fun, a two-for-the-price-of-one
                big-box-department-store-weekly-special:

Just add water! And my extra head magically sprouts
               out of my neck, birthing quicker than the Chia Pet
I was dying to bring home back in the nineties,

               with a grocery cart full and checkout-stand tabloids and scandal
and Is Elvis Really Alive and Can Our Bodies Defy Gravity?—
               sucking on lemon pastillines at checkout,

because if Eve had three faces, I’ll definitely take two
               as I wonder, What if my new head transforms into the Evil
Twin of the soap opera of my body, the lady who lingers

               in the magenta teddy with matching garters,
because nighttime looks should never be lazy, and she’s sipping
               plum wine and nibbling on a couple slices of sashimi

at midnight, but the extra head hires a hit man to murder
               her ex-husband in the middle of the pines of Pennsylvania,
and the next morning she’s caught ravaging the friend’s

               dreamboat of a fiancé on a yacht—Hey, Sailor,
let me don your cap, rise and fall like the waves, I’ll rub
               your chest hair, girl on top—she’s the flame that won’t go out,

irresistible to both women and men, and now I smell trouble,
              but if I’m not the one blooming this extra head,
I’d love to make love to the woman who dared grow those two heads,
 
                              the title of a sci-fi flick that’s galaxies better
                                            than the one about the man so awestruck he cloned
               the woman he fell in lust with, and in the end, was unable to tell

the difference. Just imagine the sugar and spice—the double delight:
               two scoops of ice cream, one cotton candy, one dark cherry,
the cocoa and rum of two heads wrapping around

                             under your 1000-thread-count Egyptian sheets,

or better yet, you’re two ladies whose legs transform into
              the lower halves of snakes, slithering
in the sex tornado of your own Eden, like the M

               of Michelangelo’s Sistine ceiling:
the artist’s serpent, a feminine-long-heavy-tail, her arm
               reaching for Eve, sealing the deal,

like Edie, the drag queen superstar host of a Vegas
               Strip sex revue, up there in the stars, a glittery-black-
disco-Bob-Mackie-Cher-moment. Oh, Edie, you beauty,

               I love the way you instruct couples to kiss
and everyone to howl, and you make me want to defy
               gravity the next time I lock lips long and slow, long and slow,

let’s get out of this world into a universe where I’m finally
               ready to admit that yes, I am just a little bit romantic,
lover, feed me, sprinkle me—scoop up that whipped cream.

Read more from Issue 15.2.