His

I have him
in me. I have
his mathematics
like a storm
stomping through me.
I have his thin wisps
of poetry tangling
in my head of his hair.
I have his past
conquests, I have
his future surrenders.
I have him. I have
him in me. In me.

Licking him off my lips.
Tasting him on my tongue.
Cruising him down my throat.
Saving him in my belly.
Taking him in my blood.
Living him in my dreams.
Fucking him in my holy bed.
I have him in me. In me.

I always have. Had him.
Even before my mother
took him for a god.
I knew he would find me.
I knew he would know me.
I knew he would have me.
I knew I would have him
and his, his.

Is it against the rule?
Is it bad?
Is it taboo?
Is it wicked sin?
Why must any part of me
refuse to take him in?

I will not deny him.
I will not refuse.
I will not shut my eyes.
I will not close my mouth.
I will not fold my hands.
I will not cross my legs.
I will not say no.

And when I have died
my little death
and bit into his shoulder
and pulled him deeper in
to lay waste to my thighs
to lie spent on my breasts
to drip indecency down my hip,
to whisper against my lips
the same farewell he said
to her when I came out
from his, back into his,
to and far away from his,
for and of and after his,
I will make of him
another in his image
and mine, mine
and his, his.

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