The Maynard
Spring 2016

Sigmund Freud, Action Figure

He evaluates me from my dresser, this tongue-in-cheek
gift from a tongue-in-cheek lover, Sigmund Freud,
action figure, is a nasty son-of-a-bitch with his pointed
white eyebrows and his painted yellow lip. I know he knows
I haven’t read his books, and I can’t quote his quotes
about poets, but Sigmund Freud, action figure, dismisses
the beauty of forgetfulness. He says I should spend more time
reminiscing. Instead, I spend time thinking about his hands.
One fingers a cigar and the other is masturbatory, cupped tight.
Only his elbows and shoulders can move, and really,
isn’t that all he needs? Sigmund Freud, action figure, argues
my obsession with pickles is a form of penis envy, and I say,
no, oral fixation, and bite off a fingernail. Sigmund Freud,
action figure, doesn’t have fingernails, and I wonder whether
this is a factory error or metaphor? He argues I’m repressed,
recessed in jumper dresses, obsessed, talking in metaphors to dilute
the message. Sigmund Freud, action figure, watches me pace in
my bedroom, throw clothes and paper and books around, drink
far too much coffee and far too little water, and satisfy my needs—no,
my libido—with my lover as he drunkenly jokes he hopes the condoms fail.