The Year of the Cock makes gender-neutral
a tad hard, be it soft flesh or strap-on —
but we strive. If, during our long anal
fucking, I cup your balls, pull your tampon
string, or rub that scarred place that you can’t feel,
then we’re still creatures of fire in a world
that loathes burning. If, after each gasp, squeal
and, “¡Ai! mi Diosa!” If, while we’re curled,
nuzzled, while the sweat and cum cools, then yes,
this year might remain awful — we can lose
so much — yet, we’re here right now, divinely.
There’s no Year of the Conch Shell, though we bless
the same deep crinkled lips. These are taboos
that we must break—these acts that make us free.