Davy Jones, Age 27, Endures Much Indignity

Lift the left one a little, and remember to please keep

this blue napkin over your penis. The woman operating

the ultrasound machine is visibly nervous in the presence

of a giant green sea-demon with his balls out. Davy rolls

eight eyes of various colors, adjusts his scrotum, covers

his dick with tissue paper. The liquid feels like Astroglide,

reminds him of his boyfriend, James, who he called an hour

or so before to say, I think I have nut cancer. Then, the wait

on a hard, plastic chair beside pregnant mothers, none of whom

recognized the devil of the sea, waiting silently, googling

testicular tumors on his iphone until the battery went dead.

And now, here he is: ten minutes of that cold, viscous gel,

and Davy is ready to drown every last soul in the hospital

until the woman says, Good news. It’s just a small cyst,

completely normal. He’s so relieved, he reaches up to wipe

a sweaty forehead with a tentacle, drops the napkin to the floor.

I don’t need to tell you how happy that makes me, Davy says,

and means it, even though he’s only vaguely smiling,

fishbone teeth protruding from his jaw, his every thought bent

once again on things that matter: vengeance, hell, high water.

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