i molded him in miniature
a lily of clumsy clay
in my naive oven,
fired behind my eye-
do you think me so pretentious?
or do you find me quite contentious?
i can’t see why you would not consent
it’s not because i told you to go get bent,
not even when i shook your hand with my dick
maybe my face just makes you want to be sick.
one day or another, it will dawn on you, dear,
that the thing you dread, you will soon volunteer
to share with the world: that you really are queer.
he really is delightful
a cartoon come to life
but is he at all insightful?
does he only want one wife?
would he look on the side
would he fancy another
would he share a little morsel
with a secondary, a tertiary lover?
would those lovers love another?
could it really be a blunder?
could love really be unlimited?
if you’d only let me try
if it wasn’t done in couples
could it multiply in bundles?
oh, sorry, not to threaten
the sanctity of your sacred sex,
not too frequent, standard issue
marital rations, every sperm special.
in jest she named herself an irish twin
and it took a second to dawn on me,
there is a spectrum, fractious,
a continuum from coey to callous,
with all kinds of intersections.
ode to my bed: freshly laundered
so spacious, so sensational,
vast and empty
as the softest reaches of Deep Space.