Art

She found his cock in a dumpster. A flesh colour obelisk, its pale rubber shaft gestured toward some unseen God. But the cock lacked any hieroglyphs, any symbols or markings which might clarify the structure of its cosmology. There was only the shrill drone of the blowflies to guide her.

She swaddled the cock in fast food napkins and ferried it home in her purse. Sometimes, on the long bus ride home, she let one hand slip into the bag and discretely fingered the cock. She wanted to feel its girth. She wanted to be sure it was still with her. In the days and months to come, she built a shrine to the cock. She worshipped it, prayed day and night. She burned incense, kept the space free of dust, left fruit to desiccate and wither in its shadow. In time, she understood, it would speak to her. In time some voice will come pouring out from the unseen places of the world. Guiding her. Whispering secrets. Issuing commands.