Her Body is Mine

My voice slipped down
between my thighs
and I moaned your name

My eyes fell
into the curve of my back
and they cried for you

My sweat receded
into my pores to sit there
and wait for your body

My hair grew four inches
in perfect curls
to surround your face

My knees practiced
for hours last year
on weakening to your voice

My body forgot you
last night in the dark
when it saw me come home

My Relationship Theory

I'm developing this theory about romantic relationships and how they relate to the order in which a child is born in relation to his or her other siblings. If a person is an only child, they receive an unlimited amount of attention from their parents and therefore do not require as much attention from their mate. If a child is the oldest, they probably received quite a bit of attention from their parents when they were younger but, once the second child was born, they struggled for attention and were deprived of affection. The middle child has a similar experience to that of the oldest child but receives even less attention than the oldest or the youngest because the oldest craves attention and the youngest still requires nuturing. The youngest child needs the least amount of attention and affection from his or her mate because they were constantly the center of attention for one reason or another; either because of acting out when the older siblings fought for recognition or simply because they were seen as the only one that required that level of care.

In romantic adult relationships, the oldest child--having lacked adequate affection for so long--seeks attention and physical contact from his or her mate more so than his or her younger siblings. The middle child, also feeling attention deprived for many years, also yearns for physical attention and more affection than the youngest child. Finally, the youngest child or the only child, having been held, coddled and "babied" their entire lives can appear cold, distant, or selfish to a partner who is either the oldest or the middle child because they resist the excessive affection and attention of their childhood.

Ideally, we should seek someone who is our equal in sibling position in order to obtain the level of attention and affection we feel we need in a relationship.

Please feel free to offer your own opinion or observation.

Half Baked

I don't recall the moment I lost interest. Somewhere between chickens and penis envy, my mind tuned out and switched to a different channel where old, black and white movies mixed with Road Runner vs. Coyote cartoons and I smiled. I didn't mean to smile but, the thought of Cary Grant and the Coyote chasing the Road Runner up the sheer face of a cliff, realizing when they were already about half-way to the top that they didn't have enough momentum to make it all the way to the top, and yelling about how the speedy, multicolored chicken they had been chasing was jealous of what big penises they had in which to pleasure their mothers with all while on their way to becoming a spot on the canyon floor amused me in a way that I simply can't explain.

The professor noticed my smile and interpreted it as a look of interest and understanding of whatever inane topic the rest of the class was discussing and she called on me, "What do you think about________?" Shit! I tuned out again. Something about cyborgs, worms, and men having babies. I think these theorists are full of shit! " I think that Haraway makes a good point about the influence of technology turning people into machines. People and their computers are inseparable." I can't believe we pay people money to sit around and think this shit up and even more for them to write about it. "The passage from Butler's story is a perfect demonstration of he deconstruction of gender identity." And I'm paying this chic to teach this shit to me? This is truly a wast of a lot of people's money, including my own.

The anxiety subsides and my mind goes back into wandering mode; this time with my head down. I pretend to take notes. Keyword, keyword, scribble. Quote, quote, scribble. Keyword, quote, scribble. Quote, keyword, scribble. The scribbles are where I fall asleep. There are mostly scribbles on the page. A whole page of partial thoughts.

Message from the Edge of Insanity

Dana stepped out of her tiny garden apartment in Oak Park and locked the door behind her. The sunlight began to defrost her slightly chilled body one ray at a time. She walked down the road and smiled at the children at play across the street at the park.

She arrived at the turnstile at the Blue Line station and paid her fare then sat patiently waiting for the train. Once aboard, she began thinking, 'Down the road not across the street. What kind of person would make that up?' The train passed the Medical District and continued into the city. 'Who would put a poster of that where people could see it? Down the road not across the street.'

This is her stop. She gets off and walks toward the building. Her bag is starting to feel heavier on her shoulders. She's crying softly and can't remember when the tears started. She walks into the building. The sterile walls surround her, throwing stark, white light onto her dark skin. She takes the razor from the right side pocket of her jeans as she waits for someone to greet her. Holding the razor in one hand and her dainty wrist with its pulsing veins out in front of her just below the line of sight of anyone standing behind the desk, she makes a small cut. It barely breaks the skin so, she pushes harder and cuts again. Down the road not across the street.

Up and down the road she cuts as tears splatter on the ripped flesh and sting in the open wounds. She calls to the nurse, "Excuse me miss, I think I'd like to admit myself." The nurse ignore her. Dana gathers what little strength that has not yet flowed out of her body and speaks louder but, the words are no longer coherent to anyone but her. "Down the road not across the street." The nurse turns and sees Dana standing there. "Silly, silly poster." She walks toward where Dana is still managing to stand, slicing into her own bloody arm and asks her how she can help her. "Admitted to a psychiatric ward. Northwestern...suicide watch..." "Pardon me miss? Are you looking for a patient here?", the nurse asks. "No watch on this wrist...no time..."

Dana lifts her arm to eye level and the nurse jumps back calling for assistance; calling codes; orderlies rush about, run to her aid, grab the razor from Dana. "Mama?" In the commotion, Dana falls to the floor still muttering to herself, "If I come up missing...green sweatshirt...blue jeans...glasses...white shoes...walls...dark..."

The Personification of Sweat: Part I

At some point, the memories of all the ex-boyfriends begin to run into one another. One wanted to fly. The other wanted to drive fast. And the ones before and after are a singular bad sexual experience that is blurred across a span of years; an anti-climactic orgasm that ends where it should peak, lulls where it should intensify. In what should be the afterglow of endless erotic encounters, the only thing I remember is the sweat.

I think I saw it on a movie. A character said that we all have three great loves in our lives. I've had two and I don't expect a third anytime soon. If it comes up, I'll let you know. My two loves can be described in simple terms for they are nothing more than men. Men, as all women know, are simple creatures. Simply put, one was fat and the other skinny. That doesn't sound too profound but, again, men are simple and should be explained in simplistic terms. Really, the distinctions between them, the things that separate them from one another in my mind, the way in which I define them—one as fat and the other as skinny—explain everything you need to know about them.

Harold, whom I will refer to as Harry, Hairy, or El Gordo was fat. He sweat when it was cold. There's no reason why anyone should sweat when it's cold. Inside or outside, if it was cold, Harry was sweating. He didn't wear coats outside during the winter because he would overheat. When he'd overheat, he'd sweat. He was also sweaty when it was hot. Harry sweat when it was hot outside or inside. When we made love, he sweat on me so much so that I began to think that I had a gland problem. I thought that I had overactive sweat glands but I wasn't the one sweating. I learned that later. After years of being self-conscious about what I thought was my own hot, sweaty body drenching Harry in secretions from every pore of my body, I gathered what I realized were only a few drops of dew on a sleeping bear and moved on to Dillard.

Dillard was my second love. In a way he was also my first but it wasn't consummated until after the sweat had dried on the Hairy Bear's back. Dillard, whom I will refer to as Dill, Dildo, or Dilly was skinny. He was so skinny that he made me feel like the El Gordo in our relationship and I'm not a big person. I loved him and his skinny sweat. I sweat now just thinking of how close we used to get to one another when we made love. We loved each other hard. I never fantasized about anything when I was with him because as soon as my mind formed the thought, we were doing it, acting it out, living our fantasies as they came to us. We needed to be together, to have our bodies touch. Even the sweat on our bodies reached out to join one another like two rain drops racing down a window; as separate drops they are a formidable match for one another but, once they join, they are unconquerable by any other drop on the pane.

I miss my skinny Dildo but I don't miss my Hairy bear.

Incubo

A wise card once said, "sometimes I want to hug you until you pop, other times I just want to pop you." Mixed up feelings about a mixed up man, in a mixed up relationship, in a mixed up world, that's what I have on my hands. What I didn't want on my hands was the blood from another person's life. If my mind was permeable, questions and answers could flow freely back and forth across a transparent membrane so that not only could everyone know what I was feeling or thinking, they could actually see my brain functioning to process thoughts. Thank God we have skulls.I was at home with my two beautiful, young children waiting for my husband to come home from work.

The children were each tucked away in their cozy, warm beds and I was sitting next to a roaring fire in our fire place reading the literature that I had chosen for the Non-Traditional Fiction class that I was teaching the next day. All of a sudden, there was a loud crash and the sound of glass hitting the floor in the kitchen, followed by footsteps in the hall coming toward me.The children were both screaming as I dragged them from their beds and stuffed them into their bedroom closet for safekeeping. The two unidentifiable men made it from the kitchen at the back of the house to the front door in no time at all. I dashed down the stairs not noticing that they were closer to me than I thought they were. As if he sensed danger from miles away, my husband burst through the door and lunged for the men in what seemed like slow motion. I hid on the floor of a coat closet in the hall between the front door and the kitchen until things had quieted down.

As I emerged from the closet, I saw my husband coming toward me covered in blood and holding a large knife that was almost as bloody as he was. I really don?t remember escaping him, but I do recall seeing the mangled bodies of the two now lifeless intruders heaped in the foyer of our house. All I could do was run, but try as I did to run as fast as I could, I barely felt like I was moving and the only thing that I thought about was getting away from my crazed, murderous husband. I ran out of the house, into the front yard, and was passing the mailbox at the junction between our gated yard and the street when I faintly heard my husband yell to me that the men who broke in were really just trying to warn me about him. I looked back long enough to see my two children standing in the doorway, yelling for me and staring at their father as he came toward them with the knife, slit their tiny throats and left them for dead on the front porch.

Something, I can't say quite what, pushed me forward and kept me running in the opposite direction of them, even though I wanted desperately to save them from harm. I jumped backyard fences in a single bound, as though I was flying right over them. At some points, I actually had to grab the top of the fence with my fingertips to avoid sailing off into the sky. All the while, I was hoping that someone would be sitting out in his or her yard on such a warm summer evening and they would help me. Birds looked at me with wonder and confusion as I went.

Before I knew it, I was approaching the back door of a familiar house; it was my Great-Aunt Maggie's who had not been there in years. The sun was setting I think, because it was getting dark outside and yet she hardly had any lights on in her house. She was cooking at the stove, but I couldn't smell her usually odorous cuisine. She put down the wooden spoon and stood at the top of the back stairs that lead the screen door that I was peering through. Aunt Maggie gave me a look that resembled the one that the birds I passed on my way to her house had given me; she never uttered a word. Just as I entered, the phone rang and I told her not to answer it because it was my husband trying to find me so he could kill me, but Aunt Maggie answered it anyway and, without saying a word, she handed me the phone. Of course, it was my husband and all he had to say was, "I know where you are," to send a chill up my spine. I ran from the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the living room at the front of the house where I saw my grandfather sitting on the couch. I begged for him to help me but all he did was look at me with the same wide, bright eyes that I look into the mirror with as I told my tale. He then sat me down on the couch next to him to silently convince me that I was overreacting.

My husband walked into the room from nowhere and shook hands with my grandfather. He continued walking toward the couch where I was sitting, but I couldn't move. My grandfather led him to sit in the chair near the couch and then exited the room. He no longer had bloodstains on his clothes and the knife he had been wielding was missing from his grasp. He took my hands, instead, in his and explained that he would never try to kill me because he loved me too much to ever do anything like that. We were alone to talk in that safe place, but I still wasn't comfortable enough to sit and talk to this thief of life. I leaped to the front door as if some unknown force was sucking me out, trying to take me back to my children to mourn their deaths now that my house was safe from my husband. Although the initial jolt from the unseen force that yanked me from the couch was swift, the unfamiliar path back to my house lingered on behind me as I flew feet first through the stagnant air. I would never made it home to clean up the mess my husband left behind. My two children and the two men who tried to warn me about my husband lay dead at my house, their bodies spilling blood all over my once pristine floors.

The yards I sailed over were vacant for some reason on this particular evening, leading me to believe that everyone was hiding inside their homes just so they wouldn't have to help me. At home with my children and with no one to assist me in protecting them; at the blood drenched hands of my husband, the madman; walking and talking with my loved ones in spite of their silence towards me; flying through the air, having no real sense of time yet having enough time to be tortured by my thoughts of being helpless. Misery! Misery! Alone in the night with my mind. What has been done can never be undone and I am therefore doomed to wander forever through the night, to nowhere.

Ophelia's Lament

Lifeless floating down mossy river tributaries that lead me where to my end that is better than life that is better than living that is better than living life here with you with you who knows nothing of me and cares nothing of me and does nothing for me and never will river reeds sweep me onward guide me onward downward past trees bushes leaves blossoms logs bump into my head but I am numb to their thuds against my skull I am numb because of you I feel no pain no anguish no guilt for what I have done for you have done far worse to me unknowingly or on purpose your purpose was never good or was it was it good for you to be the way you are to me will it be easy for you to live without me in the world alone without me with no one to hear your ranting and raving like a lunatic among lunatics you won't notice that I'm gone you don't know me you never have you never did you will never know me I commit myself to what is not yours what you cannot own what you cannot touch what is not and will never be yours you cannot touch me for I am gone you will not touch me for I am the filth that dreams are made of I am the one who hates you most and listens to you least and yet I am still here and not here and I never will be here again for you to ruin for you to make me into something that I'm not for you to take by the hand and lead me blindly into a fight that is not mine it is yours your fight that I have fought for you and will fight no longer for you I cannot fight any longer for you I've never loved you I never liked you I despised you for what you are and what you're not and what you can or cannot be for you are dull and more lifeless that my corpse floating gently down this stream into nowhere into somewhere somewhere far away from you where I am not happy or satisfied I am not clever or beautiful I am not but I am better without you I am somewhere you cannot be and nowhere you want to be and yet not happy nor am I sad I have no feelings you took them all you wrapped them up with silver linings with pretty bows made out of steel with guns and sword rammed into people into children into women into men who you say can take it but some are old some are feeble and cannot make it and yet you try to end their lives before their time I don't have to watch you do this to them or make myself feel shame I do not have to live with or without this I do not have to place the blame you did this to them and once I helped you I don't know why but now I won't I won't ever ever ever again have to deal with you or put up with you or agree with you or sit down with you and tell you show you make you believe that you are right you are not right you never were I didn't tell you out of fear out of shame out of knowledge that those around you had that I did not they knew you better they trusted you whole heartedly when I did not I disagree with you I hate you I can't live with you you make my life miserable you make me miserable you live as though you are alone as though you are the only one who matters you matter to you and not to anyone else if you were gone no one would mourn it no one would say oh what a loss to have lost such a brilliant person in their prime in the prime of his life he died he had so much potential he could have gone so far he could have really made something of himself he could have made the world a better place he could have influenced the lives of so many people for the better he could have made a difference in the life of just one person no one could say that and no one ever will no one really likes you they only fear you while you run around remembering dear old dad dad had his day and now it's over he had his day and it is gone no one mourns his leaving no one sits and cries for him no one cares to fight his battles or seek revenge no one but you wants to avenge his death to fight his enemies to dig them out of whatever hole they hide in whatever grave they lie in whatever well they drown in whatever ear they whisper in no one will willingly put poison in the ear of the man who most offended your father unless they have a personal vendetta against him in some way shape or form no one will wish ill will upon him or his family nor will they assist his family in escaping any persecution that is rightly deserved provided that they have offended someone in that way no one will help them flee from here to there or anywhere not o'er the land or sea not o'er the stream in which I lie where there's only room for me tiny me pretty me wronged me who lies her making this endless trip from here to there or where e'er I care or don't care to be tis not up to me me without control over you without protection from you me who you care nothing of and everyone else cares so much about men would die for me friends would die for me family would die for me and as I die and lie here now someone is looking for me missing me wishing they knew where I was because they care that much for me and when they find me in whatever state I should be in wherever I should finally land when my body makes its final lash against the sharp rocks that have poked and prodded me onward downward along with the reeds when I get stuck somewhere along the way someone shall rush to my bleeding side and hover over my lifeless body and shed tears of joy that they have found me tears of hope that I may still be alive and tears of sadness when they realize that I am gone they will drag my remains from the river tributary over the rocks and through the reeds they will carry my shell over whatever land should stand in the way between the mossy banks and my home and fall at the place where they can no longer make it they will give up and run for help and others will come glad to assist in any way they can for I was loved I was wanted I was needed for no other reason than to just be myself everywhere I went to spread happiness with just a simple smile to spread beauty with a bud or bloom as my presence once uplifted them so now they return the favor in a more physical sense and they lift me over their heads and carry me around in search of the perfect spot to lay someone like me you they would through in a shallow grave currently occupied by a jester who lost the ability to be funny or an unknown soldier from some distant war they would kick dirt over your corpse and spit on the sorry excuse for a grave and spend the rest of the day celebrating your demise I will be mourned for days weeks maybe even months or years and receive the most beautiful headstone ever carved carved mind you only as well as the artist could considering that he was carving through his tears and bunches of flowers will be brought to my grave daily for years to come upon my grave these words be said to whom it may concern I died a pleasant death for I loved and too was loved right up until the end to those it may concern I laughed before I died those feelings that often plagued me so I hid well deep inside though you may be concerned I beg you mourn me not for death is but a start again from you mortal finish spot yours will say nothing in hopes that one day everyone will forget that you existed that you hated that you died and when stories are told about what happened during your lifetime they will mention me and perhaps you only as a monster that tormented me until I finally let go and let God

Dana and Chris

Waking up next to her is the best part of my day. Everything after that just makes me want to be back in bed breathing in her hyacinth hair, lavender limbs, and kissing her cherry-vanilla cheek. I try not to wake her as I leave, but a groan passes from my lips as I reluctantly drag myself from beside her. She reacts, but does not hear me; she moves, but never wakes. Should I wake her so I can see into her eyes, so she can see that in mine tears are starting to form like raindrops from dark, sleepy clouds being roused quickly to action?

I want her to know that I will miss her when I leave. I want to tell her that all of my thoughts will return to this moment as they do every day. Most of all, I want to kiss her until she begs me to let her up for air. I leave her there sleeping like a cherub on a marshmallow and tip-toe to the shower. Maybe if I make myself smell like her it will ease my pain. I use her shampoo, her body wash, I feel her presence as I stand there with my eyes closed wasting hot water as she would say, but when I open them she's not there; it is only the belly dance of the shower curtain behind me. I lube up in her lotion and drown myself in her perfume. The other cops make fun of me for coming into work smelling so fruity, but I don't care and they don't understand.

The fat farts I work with all have wives that stink of powder and lotion to cover the baby crap and vomit. Others don't have children, so they come home to a TV dinner, bon-bon, magazine perfume samples, or if they're really lucky home-cooking smelling wives. They complain during the day about what their wives don't do for them in the kitchen or in bed and yet they laugh about my lifestyle, about my girlfriend, about the way I love. But I'm still standing in the mirror in her bathroom dripping diluted hyacinth onto the tile floor. I could climb back between the comfy comforter and the body-shaped sheet and blend right in with her scent so she would never know the difference, but I can't. I slip on my undies and my government issued uniform, flat shoes and all. I towel dry my hair and pull it into a pony tail. I stare at myself in the mirror and try to remember what possessed me to take this job. I'm tall and slim, kind of pretty. I like my long, tangled hair and the funky freckles on my face.

I did a pretty good job of buffing up in the academy and I could have done that on my own. I could have been a model or something, if it weren't for her. I fell in love and wanted to make sure that I could take care of her. I take good care of her; she thanks me for it all the time. I guess I don't think much of it until she says 'thank you', I just do it because I love her. If I just slip back into bed for a few minutes, it won't make a difference. I can skip breakfast, lay there for a while, kiss her goodbye and leave before she realizes what I've done. I can see her sleeping form now getting closer as I creep toward the bed. I ease beside her and then give her warm body a cool embrace. She is everything I am not. I run my rough edges down her smooth curves and compare my textured white paint with her high-gloss, satin in a shade that should have a delicious name like cappuccino or mocha-madness. She squirms, she breaths, she speaks and my only reaction is to hold her tight and hope that she just wanders back into unconsciousness. "You smell...good"

Braiding

I knelt behind him on the bed last night, braiding his long, black hair as I often do after we make love, like some kind of post coital ritual. What does one call foreplay after sex? While our bodies still glowed from the inside out, brighter than the candles encircling them, I braided his hair. More erotic than all the positions in the Kama Sutra is this placing of hand over hand to form this silky black mane into a perfect braid.

Reaching the end was orgasmic enough, but the knowledge that I would be next in line to experience this sharing of love and lust was even better. I finished his braid and laid it carefully on his smooth caramel skin, rolling it from the nape of his neck down to the bottom of his back. The loosely wound end brushed my knee and sent chills through my entire body. My body shouted, “Love me in return” and he instinctively rose to his feet, turned to face me, then used ever so little of his actual strength to reposition me in front of him.

I whipped my head back, tossing my own velvety strands over my shoulder so he could reach them. His hands brushed my shoulders as he grabbed my hair—heat. He smoothed handfuls of my hair over and over again in his hands—heat. He gave a gentle, playful tug, then pressed his face deeply into my hair inhaling and surrounding himself with beauty, my scent, and our scent—heat. He whispered softly into my ear, “I love you” before he started to braid. Fist over fist he moves along in a straight line past every curve in my back. The ebony flowed gently as Afton Waters down to the ridge below, then gracefully crashed into them as he let go of my perfect braid. We faced each other for the remainder of the night, softly stroking each other’s braids.

By morning, the remnants of our hard work were gone. Each criss that was crossed was loose and flowing again. We smile at each other and without a word say, “Come here my love; let me fix your braid.”

My Mistress Lies in Beauty

I gladly serve her though the other women scorn her and look at her with jealousy in their eyes. Some of them choose not to look at her at all; perhaps for fear that they are not worthy and may perish from the sight. Still others stare without fear or jealousy at all and are amazed by her infinite beauty. I neither fear nor am jealous of her, but that is because I see no beauty in her face. She is pale and lifeless in my eyes. While my skin glows with a golden radiance that only the sun could have created, hers has never been warmed by the light of day. The truth be told, I have heard her say that she fears the sun and so she has me cloak her from burning crown to marble feet in heavy, emerald garb. I've gazed upon myself in her reflecting glass and seen the differences between my outsides and hers. I much prefer my own; the way my lips are full and naturally rosy, my skin is smooth and warm, my eyes are dark like two sweet blackberries floating in a dish of cream.

My mistress fears not only light of day, but also dark of night. We sit together by candlelight in her room and only listen to the life going on beyond us. She dresses me like a child does to a doll and sets me at her feet to sing to her the songs that I remember from my mother. It angers her when I forget the words, but I left my mother so long ago and have not heard those songs sung by anyone else, so every night it gets harder for me to remember the words. She never raises her voice when she angers, though, for fear it will leave her in the morning like so many of those women who always yell at their girls. My mistress never allows her brow to wrinkle when she angers for fear it will ruin her milky whiteness. Sometimes, I sit beneath her and she just watches me play. She enjoys my simple youth, but never smiles for fear she will impart the knowledge of her true happiness to all who may witness such a show.

Those who know her know that the key to her beauty is that she is forever saddened by her gift. When we go out and walk throughout the garden, the jealous women follow us and whisper to each other about my mistress. She never hears a word of what they say or else she does not respond to such ugliness in them. The staring women follow us, but never speak. They are in such awe of what they see, that their tongues cannot form words to express what her beauty makes them feel. The women who cannot look at her follow us, though I know not how. They never see just where we are going to because they do not look up from the ground. I suppose they follow the sound of the jealous women's voices or perhaps the lovely scent of my mistress and I.

I lead this crowd of women around the garden picking blooms from all the flowers that I see to make into a wreath of splendor to adorn my mistress with. I carry the bunch in front of me and always hold them close in hopes that their odor will linger on me late into the day. We take our leave of the garden before the sun begins to set and wander into a room where we can rest and eat. My mistress does not eat much and always has me eat first. The finest foods are spread before us and I am allowed to begin the meal. She glances around the room at all the faces of all the women that always follow her in sort of a thank you for being with her. She never smiles or waves at them, as I have seen other women do when they recognize their friends or see them sitting across the room. She remains alone, except for me, I suppose because of her beauty and the fact that she never waves and barely eats.

My mistress walks in beauty as we exit the room and leave the women behind. This is the only part of the day when we see a man and the only time I am ever alone. We go to the chapel and she sets me at the altar to pray for her while she is gone. She walks into a smaller room and stays there for quite a while. When the time is done, she exits with a man she calls the Priest. He gently holds her arm for he knows how delicate she is. They speak in muted voices to each other, but she never looks at him. Instead, she stays focused on the beads with the cross on it that she holds in her hands. They are too far away for me to hear what they always speak about, but I imagine that it is very important to them both. A single tear runs down my mistress' cheek and splashes onto the beads. She grips them as tightly in her hands as she has strength to do so and kisses them. The Priest claps her clenched hands and kisses them as well, then leaves her standing there and rushes away. I make my way across the room to her and kiss the beads as well as a proper ending to our solemn prayers.

Tonight she watches me play with my doll as I sit beneath her and for the first time in a great while she strokes my hair. We sit in silence long into the night, as there are no actions going on beyond us. The women are gone for the evening, we have met with the man, and now it is time to just sit in the candlelit room and play. I interrupt the silence with a song for my mistress. I sing it softly at first until she begins to hum along. I have sung this one for her many times before and we both remember how it goes, though I do not remember hearing my mistress' voice ever sounding this way before. It is clear and soft and much more beautiful than her face has ever been in my eyes, but I do not become like the jealous women, or the women who stare, or the women who cannot look at all. Instead, I keep singing with her and we are beautiful together. Late in the night, my mistress and I drink warm cups of mead that she has made for us, then we begin another song.

Morning comes to my surprise, because I do not remember falling asleep. I leave my bed in the corner of my mistress' room and rush to her side to wake her. There I find a sight that I have never seen before. My mistress lies un-awakened in her bed with crimson life-blood flowing from her wrists, soaking into her bedclothes, and dripping onto the floor. Her hair is messed about her along with crushed blooms from the wreath of flowers I made for her, and her skin is paler than I have ever seen it. Her gown is torn at the bottom and I notice that her feet are spread apart. More blood pools at the bottom of her gown than there is anywhere else on the bed, so I go to see why. There between her open legs, not wrapped well in part of her torn gown, is a baby with the same paleness as my mistress and covered in the same life-blood. I look closely at the child and notice a slit that leads across his neck from one ear to the other. I run back to my mistress' side and examine her wounds; they look the same. I drop to my knees to mourn the loss of my mistress and this unknown child and land on something sharp by the bed.

There on the floor lie her beads with the cross on them, but the bottom of the cross is missing and in its place is a small blade just big enough to make the wounds on the babe and my mistress. I walk to the foot of the bed, stand there, and cry. I stare at her lying there covered in more vibrant color than I could ever adorn myself with, then look away in the fear that I am not worthy of seeing something this alive and at that moment, as never before for as long as I have served my mistress, I am jealous of her beauty.

Making Love in Anger

Two conflicting emotions
causing one erotic action
acting out of anger in lust

Lustful satisfaction
an expulsion of your frustration
that which frustrates you
only makes the thrusting stronger

Weakening me beneath your strength
in these moments
when the head that thinks
gives into the head that feels
you feed off my ecstasy

In one climactic movement
you lose all remembrances
of the day

So, love out your anger in me
let my body
ease your pain.