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.