At dawn the spouts rise into light I slip over the side of the boat — Now they come closer, my face buffeted by swirling wrack I relax I hear the eerie wail of mother and child slowly roll to me wide flukes bending furling — I am weary of walking this land, bitterly breathing air of mountain and wilderness — If I flow through all the seas mingling with the herds as they graze in clouds of plankton will I be washed clean as I was before I lifted myself up in pride out of the grass defiance of gravity stiffening my backbone —
There are some spaces that feel all precious;
the small fuzzy-haired curve of my skull-bone
where they used forceps to pull me free, plus
these words. I love these words. Get a backbone,
dear, where we’re going you’ll need it. Reading
about your fantasies, usually they
include titanic boobs bouncing, flopping,
swaying, cocks that never droop. No wordplay,
no wit, no camp. That’s not kink. An echo
can moan better. Gimme color. Vulva
purple. Cock brown. Start with this sea coral,
blue blush, start glistening deeper, pink glow,
peach wet, sopping scarlet, clenched fuchsia.
I hit a pleasure point, your thigh, my skull.
I cropped and then turned upside down this image from Waterhouse’s painting Echo and Narcissus, happy to see that Narcissus’ reflection isn’t actually looking at himself, he is staring at the audience.