I am
a catalogue of parts: a master's list
of lustering gems. A casket full of pearls
and sapphires, faceted, that flash
love's image to their lord.
A green wild world
to be dug up and treasured as a hoard.
I am
a glass, a stone, a form. Galatea,
warm figure, who can moan, can sigh, can kiss.
Or scribed and served up on a silver plate:
two breasts, of such a whiteness, such a size
to press. A narrow neck. Perhaps two eyes
to gaze on love with love. Two cherry lips.
A stomach, maybe, quivering and sweet.
A space between two thighs, white tender meat.
So the poets carve, and plate, and serve
something like a woman to the world.
Come, admire, eat.
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