Voices cry out. Still hard, I clamber out
of bed to peer through the window. A thing
crouched out there, barely human, is about
to die. There are gods of pain whose blessing
only come through guttural moans. Awkward,
blind in the thrall of climax, submission
is the nightly struggle that the coward
cries out about. In the dark I listen.
Wrists pinned, back arched, behind me you struggle
against what binds you to this bed. You’ve cried
out, dead thing, too. Union denied each time
you can’t cum with hot wax and a frightful
dillin’ doe in you. Outside something died.
In here fear divides us from the sublime.
A “dillin’ doe” is an old-fashion term for dildo.