Testicles

In a clinic by the tracks, a man with a white lab coat
calls it cryptorchidism,
and tucks his clipboard back under his arm, like a bat wing.
An undescended testicle.
A terrible thing.
Just a lopsided sac, half-full of empty.
One ball for all.

Now I’ll never win a competition.

There are things called neuticles—fake testicles.
He can take some measurements today,
and order a replacement in exactly the same size.
Of course, they can’t guarantee the roundness, firmness.

The judges would definitely notice that.

There is a procedure that uses a scalpel
to coax the prodigal orb alongside its brother.
It only takes ten minutes,
but the Board strictly condemns this practice
as barbaric.
With a smooth hand on my shoulder, he is sorry.
The best he can do is an excision of both testicles.

Fuck.

With that, I look down at my Bluetick Coonhound,
Purebred, AKC registered.
His lineage lists a number of champions.
But his huge eyes are unaware of this,
—Just as they are unaware of the deformity under his tail—
And he licks my hand, eager to be at home playing puppy games.


2008.