Center of the World

The meek inherit nothing.

God in his tattered coat

this morning, a quiet tongue

in my ear, begging for alms,

cold hands reaching up my skirt.

Little lamb, paupered flock,

bless my black tea with tears.

I have shorn your golden

fleece, worn vast spools

of white lace, glittering jacquard,

gilded fig leaves, jeweled dust

on my skin. Cornsilk hair

in my hems. I have milked

the stout beast of what you call America;

and wear your men across my chest

like furs. Stickpin fox and snow

blue chinchilla: they too came

to nibble at my door,

the soft pink tangles I trap

them in. Dear watchers in the shadows,

dear thick-thighed fiends. At ease,

please. Tell the hounds who undress

me with their eyes — I have nothing

to hide. I will spread myself

wide. Here, a flash of muscle. Here,

some blood in the hunt. Now the center

of the world: my incandescent cunt.

All hail the dark blooms of amaryllis

and the wild pink Damascus,

my sweet Aphrodite unfolding

in the kink. All hail hot jasmine

in the night; thick syrup

in your mouth, forked dagger

on my tongue. Legions at my heel.

Here at the world’s red mecca,

kneel. Here Eden, here Bethlehem,

here in the cradle of Thebes,

a towering sphinx roams the garden,

her wet dawn devouring.