my wife warning me about head and neck injuries.
My two sons bare all, as well, genitals flailing like
miniature wings. My wife warns that the neighbors
in the two-story can see over the fence and tell
who has been circumcised and who hasn’t. But we are
a little tribe of suburbanites, unfazed by who is
gawking at us, like the Dani tribesmen of New Guinea,
whose phallocrypts must endure a thousand tourists’
photographs. They believe birds and humans once
lived together. They have words for only two colors.
They are great models for us who are trying to simplify
our lives, who are still a little confused by
all the publicity given to private matters
and all the influence given to the men who wear the pants.