In the Beginning

I have a friend who carved a hole

in the end of a thick cucumber, then hollowed

a tube all the way through

with a spoon. Gentle scraping. Yes,

he fucked the hole he made.

He was a closet-Christian, and nothing

says closet-Christian

like creative masturbation. Or masturbation

with creation. Creation being

the juiciest produce Safeway had to offer.

He didn’t tell me this, but I imagine him lifting

that delicate thing to his eye

and looking through his window at the world

tunneled—dolloped sky, piece

of his neighbor’s lemon tree. I made this, he thinks,

a little ashamed, a little amazed,

which is maybe what we’ll always feel

possessed by desire. I made this—

his dick soft now, sticky, flecked with pale seeds.