This body I give, she says,
by Julian X  /  poetry  /  23 Apr 2008
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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