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Death by Crocodile: A Porno

I want to be rolled, wrestled down and under
by a stealthy, floating garrote, snout topped
by two searching, sulfurous, lidded blisters,
the slits of the pupils cracking open
the reptilian cortex like arrow loops
in the oarlike barbican of the head,
followed by the motile and moatlike
tract of the body, jaw, belly, anus,
encased and fortified by a thick,
green-black, proteinate bark,
and propelled by a notched,
bendable scythe that razors water
so slowly and silently I
do not hear or see him coming
till he's got me by my ankles,

and I disappear with only a murmur
and a slurp, one hiccup and a gargle-like
splash where my face was,
and a skull-shaped ripple
petering out concentrically
as the surface tension recomposes
around the site of the last time I fell.

I want to be dragged to the bottom
and thrashed. I want to slip on
the darkness of the algae-padded depths
as easily as velvet scarves or
elbow-length, kid-skin gloves.

And he will not stop until I'm done.
Patient and unevolved, he'll pin me
till the last air bubble shimmies out,
then throttle me till we're one, locked,
connubial and sealed like a barrel,
tumbling in the dark, weedy dregs.

Dead, I'll stay bedded down there,
tendering out. He'll return to find me
marinated in slime and silt,
succulent with decay, falling apart
like pot roast chunks. A few heaves,
a few lurches, a few more clinches
complete devourment.

Now, with what instrument of modern-
day execution, with what electric handshake,
with what toxic prick, could I be so
ecstatically excised from the shore
where the women wait like endangered
orchids, veiled, sweaty, sad, weak and
drooping with outsized petals like hope?

If you want to be had,
these are two of the natural laws:

Desire has knuckles. Need has jaws.


Amanda Norris

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