Walking alone, as I had expected, I weep a little from pain,
then rise, seeking tea. My hand slides down my body, cups a breast,
scratches and yawns.
I throw aside the bedclothes and leap onto the cold floor to find
a mirror. Long hair veils my face. I dare not pull it back. Because
the caressing hand has found, under the swell of the breast and the
cup-navelled female belly, a pole swollen with morning, a proud
Gods of the Night and the Morning, Achaean and Archaic, I have
been heard. He is not here; he is inside me. I have his sex and he
is inside my head. I can hear his voice, wailing, questioning, and
I have no answers.
One hand grabs a breast, hard enough to leave red marks; his
hand. One hand strokes a phallus, bringing a spurt of delight;
We lie down again to find out what we can do.