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“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 Once my fingers are withdrawn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.