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SHE
. . . binds me to the four poster bed,
mounts me shyly, awkwardly
my view of her is straight up, dwarfed at the foot
of her Colossus and reaching into
herself with a finger she balances to my lips
a drop of wetness on a fingerprint,
like a specimen on a slide, inserts, and roughly
massages my tongue and teeth
as if to say: You have tasted me before
but never against your wish, helplessly
regardless of what you want.
And it is good for me just now
not to know whether or not you
want to. I am free to predominate over you,
as a fact of life, like water or air, unavoidably alive
indisputably so, like the taste in your mouth
of a food that you once ate but cannot remember
the name of, like a medicine when you are
chained to your bed by a fever of the soul
or the foul broth given on Devil's Island
to the prisoner of solitary
confinement
who broke the rules,
must be punished,
say, for jerking off
or having sex with another inmate
or the time that you played
with yourself in the bathroom
of your mother's house
as she shouted and pounded
on the door, enraged
ordering you out,
perhaps to be shot
for the crime of having sex
with your own
loneliness
She empties into me a solitude that says:
When you touch me you don't want to
So I'll bind you and you will...
but she can't believe my touch
My hands are trapped. I can't touch her
She believes only in what she cannot feel
Only that is real to her
The woman is my lover, and I love her
Grateful, I drink
from the cup of her
unrepentant selfishness
Then she pours her
solitude into me
as climaxing moans
fill the room like ghosts
- Alan Kaufman