After the movie I scratch dried cum from
your dress. I might be a sloppy fuck-toy
but an indiscreet heat made the maelstrom
in your cunt rage. I know that you enjoy
the storms your body makes. “Mama told me
just bad girls do this.” On our second date
your neck bloomed with a venus-red hickey.
On our third your toes curled. Boring and straight
were your classmates. “I’m a storm-witch,” you said.
“I make my cunt typhoon.” No one at school
got you. “They think I’m weird.” I understand.
I felt the Wyrd in you, too; that wild dread
for the forbidden, a greed that’s not cruel,
a thirst for all that’s beyond this wasteland.
One definition of Wyrd is the Teutonic term for Fate. As Beowulf said: “Everyone in this life will go lay themselves down on the bed where Wyrd has decided to nail them.”