No abduction. Just a hoop of light I felt like stepping into.
At a folding desk with a box of pens and gum, it sat
attempting to look terrestrial. The beard suggested
friendliness, each finger sporting a painted nail. The voice?
There was no voice. Questions slipped into my head by a
wave of its hand. We know how to swallow the sun, bend
time, outrun starlight, we’ve heard of your wars, greed, and
lust. But tell us about marriage. Marriage? The bond, the
bands, the terms ‘husband’ and ‘wife.’ The eight billion of
you agree on nothing but marriage. We must do it. Whom
does it please? Cake makers at first, then lawyers and
priests. Does it cause happiness? Yes, a great joy. A heat
that grows homicidal. Don’t most of you divorce? We do.
And those who don’t? They’ve thought of it. So, you marry
why? Love. The hand of hundred fingers.
Peter Krumbach was born in Brno, Czechoslovakia. His most recent work has been or is about to be published in Beloit Poetry Journal, Bitter Oleander, jubilat, Massachusetts Review, New Ohio Review and Willow Springs. He lives in California.