Le Anatomie Illusoire

You speak of playing with pebbles

your perfect fingers stroking their glassy exterior until calm.

I imagine my body shrinking to a blue crystal size

being transferred from index to middle…

from middle to wedding-

the way I sometimes imagine you pressing piano keys.



My hand wanders along the edges of my most confusing body parts.

Skin cold and firming,

though soft with the gentle brush of ungroomed, stray hairs.

I don’t feel like a woman though I am made of more femininity than I know what to do with.


What questions have I not tried etching out of my skin;

out of my deepest peace and pieces

until shuddering explodes through the innermost in…


These muscles and tissues –

of what use are they without enough brain for ideas?

Is Brain worth much without Soul for direction?

Am I a perfectly balanced confliction?

Or do I yearn to be lady enough

to be the pebble in your palm?



The coming of age

Ode to the orgasm,

first experienced and allowed on the forefront of biased classrooms.

Ode to the girl,

brave enough to take what is hers where most would not even dare think of it.

History was my favorite subject;

I guess the mumbles of terrible choices were only enough to rediscover what the meaning of moist is.

And I was the only spectator –

always anticipating the gently slanted thighs on her chair.