The Many Loves of Edward Theodore Gein

He dances under moonglow, a blanket of
corpses over his body, kissing his lover’s mouth,
wearing her breasts on his belt. He’s gentle
and whispers her name, and those of others
hanging onto him, clinging like second skin,
their lives a layer of love and adoration.
But he’s thinking of his mother
and would she approve of his behavior,
late night shopping in the cemetery,
candlelit dinners with soup served in skulls,
masturbating to the obituaries, which read
like lusty dime store novels. Always
the romantic, keeping part of every woman
who gave herself to him, out of pity,
out of her own pain, carving her initials
next to his, leaning her head against the bedpost.
The boy who ejaculated at the sight
of a slaughtered pig, he’s sensitive and knows
the terrible torture of being alone.
For his mother was his first lover,
abandoning him for her jealous god,
who disapproved of his self-abuse in the bathtub,
while she grabbed his genitals, called them
the curse of man, swearing him to a life of
virginity. But his latest lover understands him
and craves his touch, giving up her flesh
to his fantasies. And he, being patient
and amorous, preserves their passion
in common objects of his darkest desire,
the lampshade that glows with her memory,
chair that carries the scent of her hair,
and the window curtain that flaps
and waves at the mention of her name.

Robin Shepard is a poet and musician living in the lowlands of California's San Joaquin Valley. He completed an MFA degree in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts in 2006. His work has most recently appeared, or will appear, in Black Poppy Review, Poetry Super Highway, Autumn Sky Poetry, Rat's Ass Review, and Monterey Poetry Review. He is the author of Quiet Stars Falling into Quicksand Memory (2017) and The Restoration of Innocence (2022), both from the Merced College Press.