Fishing
Decapitating, gutting:
to love is still to hate,
squeezing out its entrails
to see what thing it ate.
Watch her hips and watch her spine,
my hand around her throat.
It’s not me she wants at all.
Inside my head, a boat.
It would drive me mad to feel
her mouth against my ear,
taking, claiming, softly saying,
“You are mine, my dear.”
But I do, I do, I will
give her what she wants.
Four times, her nails dug in my skin;
it bled, and still it haunts.
Not once I came or felt delight,
except her depth, my fall.
I came so full of hope for this
and left with none at all.