Sex With Him

Sex with him is like the last supper
(“take, eat, this is my body”) – on whose
basis you would be willing to carve out
a new social order: this time in cahoots

with the Indians: pioneering towards
the sensual – warmly herding hormones
through the body’s western prairies:
every beast aligned. Could you say

the thing outright? Give it a try. The heft
and taste and amplitude – the rhythms
and the trance of it: nope. Can’t even
glance at it without it blinding. Cannot

separate the thing without it binding just
as instantly as you have caught a glimpse
of some component part. Sex with him
is an impenetrable art. Happens only

rarely. Which you suppose is fine. That
random blast of wondering what’s "yours"
or "mine" – couldn’t take it every day.
Would blow you quite the fuck away.


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