You boast that weakness is my virtue,
and lay my skin to waste with a stone of lust.
But the hard body knows nothing
of ecstasy’s tragic bells.
Whose blood is it that you spill?
I have seen the arrogance of patriarchs
wail between my breasts,
and murderers have become wine
in the infinite bowl of my waist.
You wield me like a sword of remorse,
but I will have my music.
See, my hands deftly find
the octaves beneath the skin,
the way they also coax dark gardens
from my frenzied mandolin.
Then, your strength comes over to me,
where it grows supple and defeats you.


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