Captain Kirk's WomenA Poem by Kherry McKay
Copyright © 2008 by Kherry McKay
Captain Kirk's Women
After reading Billiy Collins
Last week, one sought the notice of the captain in a 60’s flower-power blouse with an open neck. Her name was Miri. I can only hope she was unaware of me, an ogling twelve-year-old watching her and the captain in TV syndication. I fell for her hard even as she revealed a teenage crush on the captain, got hurt, and broke out in a blue-green patina, a symptom of love and a deadly ailment on her world.
Before her Nona, an intriguing name as ever for a “Kanutu” woman, cast a spell while slipping into shimmering, black-Lurex bellbottoms; a bracelet the shape of a snake, a part of her voodoo. She cured Kirk with a quivering “mahko” root: I stiffened as her lacerated right palm rested on the captain’s chest, the wiggling root making her cry in loud incantations. When she finished she swooned; I almost passed out on my side of the Sylvania. She asked Kirk, “Can you smell this fragrance?” (My mother came into the living room to tell me to take out the garbage.) “Some,” Nona said, “. . .find it pleasing. . . .”
Leila, a farm girl from Omicron Ceti III who’s blond and seems like she’s from Iowa (but much happier now that she’s possessed by hallucinatory plants), has Mr. Spock giggling. Leila meets Spock while in tight-gray overalls with shoulder epaulettes and front-zip pants, showing him her planet’s happiness spores. All it took was one spew and now Mr. Spock hangs upside down from a tree as I slide down languorously from the living room sofa. If only loving a girl could be like pollination instead of strange and painful like it is in the seventh grade.
I want Leila badly until I learn of the irresistible teardrops of Elaan of Troyius, who, by crying, makes people her love slaves. (Oh, how youths appreciate royalty when it’s adorned in dilithium crystals, looks Nigerian, and brandishes skin through skimpy aluminum!) Elaan wears a haughty expression but I stop caring as I catch her belly button move under a whisper-weight camisole with a point d’esprit back. A touch of her liquid and I’d be her plaything.
And I’d have drunk from her tears if given half the chance, but I lack time, for now there’s Deela visiting in the wink of an eye; cynical Deela in a lilac nightdress with no sides, who lives her whole life in the blink of a second and who's making a play for Captain Kirk. I’d better get a move on while she’s in her charmeuse gown with a low backline and sweetheart trim. The captain might be hers before he can say “beam me up.” (Darn, part of the scene is missing. Now Kirk's re-donning his boots -- they didn’t show the good part!) Deela can secrete all the Scalosian serum into my morning orange juice that she wants as long as keeps me home from school. Slowly, in real time, she’ll pull off her scalloped shirt with its elastic, gloss shirring and incandescent clasps and force me to become her latest wink.
I’d have settled for a life of microseconds with Deela, but today there appears Lieutenant Moreau on an alternate Enterprise with more midriff showing than Brittany Spears, who’s not yet born, will imagine after she is. Long flowing hair and a twist in her gauzy, metallic peignor. Moreau’s little finger pushes a clear plastic button that makes a bad Kirk’s enemies disappear; what I think of -- adjusting my blue jeans in another direction -- is how she might help me thin out the jr. high male gene pool, A.K.A., the competition. I wished I had a woman like that to get me through Civics!
Moreau is accustomed to being “the Captain’s woman,” but the captain won’t want her next week. She'll call me captain then as she comes to my house to meet my parents, saying, “I have to take your son to Rigel 12. He’s too handsome and mature for puny Earth!” She’ll lie down on my robot-festooned bedspread, beckoning me with her come-hither, Star Trek stare: the look casting directors perennially, up and down search the galaxy for.
Years have passed. I’m grown up -- or rather, I’m supposed to be. I scan for intelligent ladies who’ll leave the security of Earth behind, shove off with me in my Enterprise Explorer car rental; enter the parts of my psyche in which no one has gone before. Thanks to you, Captain James T. Kirk and to all your beautiful space babes, for lending my imagination a few manageable, tender introductions to love. The distance between a man’s and a boy’s sex life isn’t measured in parsecs or light-years: it’s measured by a libido’s fears, and by a beauty that doesn’t need a telescope to be seen, to start a kid to judder. . . .
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© 2011 Kherry McKay
Added on December 17, 2008
Last Updated on September 30, 2011