portion of the artwork for Kelly Boyker's poetry
The Double-Eyed Man
Kelly Boyker

He was born with double pupils in each eye. This strange freak of nature did not in the least deter this active man.
—Robert Ripley, 1929

After telegraphing advance instructions to cover the mirrors,
he will arrive with a suitcase record player
and a 33 LP of an unknown castrati.

By scripture, by apple, by duct-tape, by rope, by concrete block,
by gravity, by cellophane, by antler, by anemone, by razorblade.

His world is peripheral, what is outside
the frame, the woman naked on the coverlet, the man
in the corner, weeping. Slide, glide, suck air.

By windshield, by mayonnaise, by sister, by claw, by needle
by spoon, by fang, by candy, by neighbor, by priest.

Swivel in fixed sockets. Travel under an assumed
name. Cancel the airmail stamps. Avoid
the carriage wheels. He will request you suck his pinkie.

By stake, by cholesterol, by train, by bridge, by hangman
by scorpion, by hook, by confession, by misstep, by babybites.

Who will boil the water?
Who will sharpen the blade?
Who will kneel outside the picture?

He will arrive at your hotel tomorrow.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 33 | Summer 2011