My love, it is a skein, a sheet drawn taught

from my elbows to my feet. We pretend

we are resilient until we are caught,

then uncover the cheeky truth: women

want and want. There’s a voice that hammers through,

an incessant beating upon the door,

that dire need for You. I tremble, I do.

Yet I would rather defer to a whore

who leaves her intentions on the divan,

who prefers to romp with the Casual Wit

than to chat with a Pious Bore in vain.

I want, too, or shall I deign to submit

I wantonly need. The rules of the game

are set, and there’s nothing more to explain.