“Kong was never intended to be anything but 
the best damned adventure film ever made, which it is; 
and that’s all it is.”  Merian C. Cooper


What happens 
when the big, awkward ape of wishing 
breaks through the Hall of Mirrors
and stands plop in front of you 
in all his drudgery:
missing button, frayed collar, three moles on the neck.  

You’re shorter than I remember you. 
Less hair. Fatter stomach.
But boy, your tongue and finger 
still know how to make me sing!

Fear is contagious.
I can’t tell in which one of us 
it starts, ricocheting off skin, 
mirrors, the pearly membrane of bubbles. 

What a mess this would be,
if that big old dream 
-- of you and me --
came true. Splattered bubble juice, 
broken mirrors.  Someone might get hurt.



But who’s the one 
who makes the monkey move?
Who’ll step forward?
I’d welcome you. 
I’d bring out my courage, 
shine its silvered surface until it smokes.
No more hiding behind black glass for me.
No more skulking in shadows or jungle grass.

This relationship’s been 
a model of slow motion animation.
I want it to move, damn it, move.
I want to leave big footprints,
like the 50 foot woman or man.
Or King Kong,
dangling Fay Wray
(who was initially simply terrified
of something real!)
from his big hairy fingers.

If King Kong had lived,
where would he have taken Faye?
Would she wipe his long, thick hairs
from their oversize couch, complaining?
Find bits of leaves and berries in their sheets?
Complain about his breath?

Me, I’m ready for action, 
Eager to be hoisted someplace else.