Still, my offer stands. Whispered in passing
when your husband gets up to pay the bill.
Followed to the bathroom’s third stall, clicking
the lock as you look up and smile. The thrill
of the glance. Ogled at the meat counter
as you stand with your children, eyeing hind
loins and fleshy ends. Eyes talk. The offer
sounds like a riddle: “well nigh twined” “drain blind”
“the fount of your cunt.” In a gaze, a glance,
a grok: fount and fountain, sigh and siren,
love now, be still, listen. If you’re shameless
you’ll be praised. If you’re bold you’ll get the chance
for bliss. All that in a glance’s question:
this can only progress if you say yes.
In the ancient myths what was Eros’ dark side named? So much of erotica is based around spontaneous, impulsive action, embracing passion wherever it appears. Yet without consent all that we treasure turns toxic and brainsick. There must be a name for that dark wind that flows through certain souls but not others.