First clue of others like you. Not romance
but bliss when the cauldron in your cunt stirred.
You knew why. In the peep-show reel from France
the nun reclined in rucked-up drawers. You heard
slip-slop noise each time the devil’s affair
plunged up to its hilt. Froth and cream spending
festooned in smears about her curled-back hair,
sopping his balls, a rivulet oozing
between split thighs. “Sappho at the Disco.”
“Girth, Wind and Fire.” “Sleeping Booty.” “Little
Orphan Tranny.” Those films were fun, but this,
child born from porn with no spite, no macho,
changed you. That clue that you could be carnal,
too. Your brain’s refrain. This first hint of bliss.