Thine Will Be Done

I came to understand you, dear aperture,

dear sweet sweet apple. I lean into the raven

headboard and place my finger on your pucker.

I tap once, twice, run a line from the delicate fruit

to the testicles’ porch, and the mumble

from the backhoe out back digging

into the playground clouds the room.

I came to free myself as Kant claimed,

cunt-less as I am; I tap thrice the centerfold,

file my other hand against my nipple.

In this house, we call it Good-Good,

Wet-Plum, Bussy-Flower, His.

I want my fill again.

I fish my finger into my mouth

and swim as if a stranger

to the swamp: tongue, teeth, spit, gums—

I’m all there. And where is He?

I imagine He kisses the soft, massages it

into a small pond surrounded by columbine,

meadow sage, windflowers. I dip my finger in.

At first, the windflower winces.

I say, Breathe, in His accent of  love,

and give myself to thyself.

I think of the night he bested my beast

inside the bathroom after the bedframe

turned tail and the sky barked up its last tree.

I grab the cattail between my legs, stroke,

and sequin my breath with His name.

The sable wishes for more—I place

another finger in. Ah. Yes. I run

through the field. I hail diamonds

from the depths of my mine.

I moor the hallways with moan

and musk and mire. I want the neighbors

slain prostrate beneath me. Me?

I am that I am what I will always be—

and they? They are what I allow them to be,

a lone lily at the edge of the cliff

begging for rain. And at the cliff’s edge,

I come