Bill Knott

Male Menopause Poem

How as to lean my non-eon on autumn’s roan

Undoing, to smile while the stymies crawl

All over me and the prismatic blindfold

Around my testicles creaks: guess this house

No longer knows which door I am. The window

We were, does it remember its view? You-or-I

Saw so little out there; what future: only

Snatches, catnaps of our nightmares yet to come.

Doorknobs worn to doornubs — grey stubble on

Gaunt armpits — lists like that litter this earth.

A lattice of graves greets me or is kind to me;

My hair plowed with parents, their protracted

Smoothings of some poor, tuckablanket bed.

As said each road I find in your face is fled.