Why must lust
depend on division?
Why does sex stun
when it’s most unbound?
To be whole, they have always told me,
is the province
of a woman: to be full: fulfilled.
Nothing about fear.
Nothing about the sublime
writhed desire
locked in body and mind,
the incapable aches
roiling sleep—.
What spurs the blood
into simmering
does not love it,
would not suffer one lack
to prevent its being spilled.
What becomes one body
to another
is imagining, not truth. How terribly
this sort of rapture
—covetous, uncluttered—
cleaves us empty.