She sits on my lap, working, amidst the authenticity of a Museum.
She sits on my lap. She sits on my leg and talks into my face.
Why does she insist on being so close to my face when she speaks to me?
She slides over my groin when I am addressed by a visitor, also in a veil,
as though we were conjoined, and she bucks, forwards and back.
Sometimes my reaction is like a bloodknot edging at the underside of her leg.
A man is a bur in her blue muscle, a string of tendons tied on a loop
that may embolise and rip down her leg like a grievous unseen muscular injury.
Other times there is nothing, I am not only unaroused, I am retracted.
As though a woman's member were freezing, receding into cavities
where woeful white worms lips. I imagine I have behind my lips.
I am sick. It hides to the sound of Gregorian chants, like my childhood.
Her weight, not inconsiderable for such a whisper of a Cocoon.
The blue is coming from my teeth, I have fallen short of cold
Whoever feeds from the mouth will be perfected now, and it is her, foul.
Who looks like a cherubim and hides from man's sight?
Blessed is the womb that has not conceived, & ignores the crying of Miriam.
Let her enter my inner being, for, after this, I will not come out naked.