Talk about intimacy! I’d almost rather not.

The day before, a tussle with nausea

(DRINK ME: a liter of sickly-sweet liquid)

and diarrhea, so as to present oneself

pristine as a bride to the groom with his tools,

his probe and tiny TV camera

and honeyed words. He has a tan,

just back from a deserved vacation

from his accustomed nether regions.

Begowned, recumbent on one’s side,

one views through uprolled eyes the screen whereon

one’s big intestine snakes sedately by,

its segments marked by tidy annular

construction-seams as in a prefab tunnel

slapped up by the mayor’s son-in-law.

A sudden wash of sparkling liquid shines

in the inserted light, and hairpin turns

loom far ahead and soon are vaulted past

impalpably; we float, we fall, we veer

in these soft, pliant passages spelunked

by everything one eats.

Then all goes dark,

as God intended it whenever He

sealed shut in Adam’s abdomen

life’s slimy, twisting, smelly miracle.

The bridegroom’s voice, below the edge of sight

like buried treasure, announces,

“Perfect. Not a polyp. See you in

five years.” Five years? The funhouse may have folded.