I came to understand you, dear aperture,
dear sweet sweet apple. I lean into the raven
headboard and place my finger on your pucker.
I tap once, twice, run a line from the delicate fruit
to the testicles’ porch, and the mumble
from the backhoe out back digging
into the playground clouds the room.
I came to free myself as Kant claimed,
cuntless as I am; I tap thrice the centerfold,
file my other hand against my nipple.
In this house, we call it Good-Good,
Wet-Plum, Bussy-Flower, His.
I want my fill again.
I fish my finger into my mouth
and swim as if a stranger
to the swamp: tongue, teeth, spit, gums—
I’m all there. And where is He?
I imagine He kisses the soft, massages it
into a small pond surrounded by columbine,
meadow sage, windflowers. I dip my finger in.
At first, the windflower winces.
I say, Breathe, in His accent of love,
and give myself to thyself.
I think of the night he bested my beast
inside the bathroom after the bedframe
turned tail and the sky barked up its last tree.
I grab the cattail between my legs, stroke,
and sequin my breath with His name.
The sable wishes for more—I place
another finger in. Ah. Yes. I run
through the field. I hail diamonds
from the depths of my mine.
I moor the hallways with moan
and musk and mire. I want the neighbors
slain prostrate beneath me. Me?
I am that I am what I will always be—
and they? They are what I allow them to be,
a lone lily at the edge of the cliff
begging for rain. And at the cliff’s edge,
I come