Tags
dying gods, erotic poetry, four-fingered thumb, Lilith's gift to Adam, pain gives me freedom, sonnet
When pulled out the plug left a hole that gaped.
It had been twisted — into the deeper
niche of your nether regions — I had taped
down the battery wire to your inner
thigh, set the vibrator to vex and ire
and left you, as you had asked, fidgeting
all day long. Some of us get desire,
some can only give. There are gods, dying,
who get prayed to less. This four-fingered thumb
can plug, but not with the current that ran
through you. I found you, later, on your knees.
Lilith’s blood. “This pain will give me freedom,”
you moaned as I took the plug in one hand
and pulled amid your prayers and pleas.
