This body I give, she says,

has nothing to do with me,

is not me, is nothing.

I, she says, you cannot touch,

you cannot fuck, you cannot

see or possess or penetrate

the way you do this body,

this thing I see in the mirror

that is not me.

And yet she knows that men

want that thing-not-her,

and that it pleases them --

and more, that they think they can

touch or fuck or penetrate.

They do not -- in some corner of their mind

cannot, cannot understand

that it is not me they possess:

that men cannot, that no one can possess

another -- and certainly not

with such ease,

not with some tool of their biology.

And yet, she knows how much

men treasure the illusion,

how much -- how desperately much

it means to them.

You can see it in their eyes,

those frightful, puppy dog eyes

when you say yes.

The body, the tits and ass,

means nothing to her, is not

even her -- and yet she knows

without comprehending

how much it means to me

and it is her delight to give,

to see my delight,

to see how much I treasure

this thing I can possess, can claim

in lieu, perhaps,

of her.

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