>> This is another kind of a complicated love poem.
Why feel guilty because the death of a lover causes lust?
It is only an animal urge to perpetuate the species but if I do not inhibit my imagination
and dreams, I can see your skull smiling up at me from underground
and your bones loosely arranged in the missionary position.
This is not an incapacitating vision except at night, and not a will of constancy,
nor an irrevocable trust., so I take on a woman with a mouth like an open wound.
I would do almost anything to avoid your teeth and bones in the dirt.
She is desirable, loving, and definite., but when I feel her up, I hesitate.
I still feel the site of your absence.
It is as large as the silence of your invitational smile
or the vacancy open in the cage of your ribs.
Fuck that, I say.
Why be guilty for this guilt?
It's only birth control.
Therefore, I extend my hands, tongue, and prick to you, through her as substitutions
for the rest of my body in hopes that you'll be born again as her daughter before I have
to join you as your permanent husband.
But I know you, you want me to come, come as I am right now,
without her, and to bring along a son.