“The bud/ stands for all things” – Galway Kinnell
After loss then the libido snaps back
sick and mad as before. I don’t know why.
Knuckles push into moss until – hunchbacked,
straining – I pry the bud apart. My thighs
soggy sorrow burn all orange glory.
What gods would trust a mouth that makes such Os?
Thorny lips … that curl up around all three
of my fingers … a butterfly … that glows
when it dips for nectar — No, won’t go on.
What’s wrong? I feel like I’m faking it. Porn
on a Thursday. After loss why this brief
horniness? Once my fingers are withdrawn
let the bud close, leaving behind thorn,
moss-grown verge and grief. The gods’ own grief.