My lover’s vagina has undone her.
She had me fooled
that she’d mastered this impossible world,
and the motive of her body’s force,
and those eyes and lips that,
in her fiercer tides,
cast me to the wall
where I was utterly freed of artifice.
But at her moist core
the unbrushed hair and thickening scent
of her sexual water,
the things she would conceal and abate,
that too often speak the fuller voice,
the tongue she cannot tame,
that holds her at an angle
until the joy flows out,
and drips a crimson necklace
ringed around her sleeping collar,
her sleeping sheets,
that hurls her into silence,
into the ancient temple of her body
where her giantesses’s will stands mute,
and learns to heal
amidst a dark and painful incense.


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