In Praise of M.G.M.

Imagine a world with alternative customs

Where girls do not suffer F.G.M

But it is the boys who are prepared for marriage.

 

I carried Jack from Uncle’s house.

My neighbours and brothers high-fiving

as they returned to their homes, cheering

Jack’s name and chanting ‘He-a-man-now!’

 

His P.E. teacher had noticed the signs.

His voice was beginning to break,

a layer of fluff had covered his top lip.

Uncle said we’d left it later than most.

 

My wife was out when we got home.

I removed the blood-soaked rags,

wiped him clean as Uncle showed me

saw the sutures pulling at his crotch.

 

I iced the bruises on his arms and thighs

where we’d held his writhing body,

stifled his screams with a leather belt,

watched Uncle slice his cock short.

 

Uncle is the best, keeps his knives sharp,

free from HIV and other blood disease,

broadcasts to prospective brides

the names of boys he’s made worthy.

 

When Jack comes to, I tell him he’s brave,

there will be many wives wanting him,

a good, clean man, without a foreskin

scuzzy with smegma, his balls intact.

 

Women prize a man with a small cock,

especially if he’s worn bands to restrict

the girth; a short, thin cock is best.

Women are lazy and find fellatio tiring.

 

I tell Jack he won’t be tempted to stray.

The operation will keep him faithful,

keep him righteous in the Lord’s eyes

and he’ll never be called a wanker.

 

I teach him how to stop infection,

to wear sanitary protection until he heals

warn him pissing stings, but he must

keep the eye clear or risk more cutting.

 

I show him my scars, ‘It heals, you’ll forget.’

He sobs in my arms and begs for aspirin,

he’s too, too young, still my little boy.

He asks why his mother would allow this.