I keep a lover in every ville, With whom I impart the pleasures I feel. I allow them to drip drop, Like the tap against my skin, But I never give in. Arriving with your broad-arm charm, I practiced the smile I’d been saving for the beach, You fell feet first, the way I’d rehearsed. It made perfect sense for the first half hour, But I was secretly praying for a coup. Your studio is cluttered with purses and drivers licenses, You shrug them off as an unfinished endeavor, Suspended from your window is a cartouche You’ve fashioned out of batik, Lustful bodies that exist but cannot speak. I am transfixed by the lewd women, Trying to imitate their poses. I am sending them empathy, Begging them to shut their thighs, I can hear their laughter, their despise. Soon enough it is their voices, Subduing my résistance, Defaced and humbled I pose on your chart of muses, Taking my place among the goddesses, Who made you so proud.
