The room was large and white and full
of old browned juvenilia with blackened gilt,
whose ownership was as soulless and heavy
as the shapeless drab thing that hangs
unworn in every woman's closet.
Mine, all mine and meaningless
as the dust I run my finger across.
But slithering behind the last low shelf
where I knelt--the hiss and fang
of a tawny, gold streak.
Running up the stairs
(I never know of until
they were always there)
I flee to the kitchen
and coyly, there he is:
curled on my silver
serving tray like a dessert
ready to be carried to
the guests.
The butcher blade is sharp and wide,
my muscles tense and fly,
chopping and chopping
but all is gold and white
and not a drop of blood.
Your penis stands erect,
blood red from the hair up--
the ivory semen lost
in its deep Burgundy clots,
like rain in the mud.
I laugh at your
grimace of disgust
and remember
another phallus
proud as a cobra
in the sun
cloaked in pure
thin glistening red
below a smiling
face of awe and
pride.
The blood drips down towards my sheets,
and you have no kisses left.