Most of our lusts are hell-bent. Hot breath in
our head. Chaos flurry. Keen for a leer,
vile look, fractious love. They say that sin
is man-made. We get off feeding our fear.
We all have shreds of it riddled through us.
I felt yours when you came over. Nightmares
full of husband’s fists, mothers of violence
are just dreams. Some are as toothless as prayers
against rage. I’ve raved and craved that hate, too;
but my rage went inward. Ate me in ways
that you never will. Violence born bliss
still shames me, anchors me, sucks me in, spews
me out. Why such a craze for the male gaze?
We who insist that we’re above all this.