dolly llama


She sits back
inside me
and
licks my
orange peels
with,
a mellow
lovable tongue

watching me
suffer the slings
and
arrows

of My life
with
a predictable
labor. of love

having fed from my
orchard for,
several months She knows
that
i am a beautiful thing
in terms of
yellow polaroids
and,
rusty tricycles

a man
of
remarkable cowardice
toward
life, in itself

a believer
in
Me tucked safely under. Her arm

She politely refuses
to share with me
the
scraps of
her own
private and,
anonymous
madness

says i am
only bemused by
flights: of fancy

a flat+, unchaste belly

hor’s, doeuvre tits

painstakingly;
plucked

eyebrows

only a few of, which
are,
in fact.
sometimes true

the suckled
rinds of
my Self are
Her evidence
that i could

love
no one

short, of Perfect

Her claim
that i never
let go of

my youthful
aspirations
to focus on the
worst, in everyone

Her proof
that there is One
Goddess
for whom

i faithfully traverse the
ends of the earth
and, (never find

mouth
the color
of, the sun
body
tanned, golden
brown
insides moist).
and unmistakable

my heart
yelps at the thought of
Her

soft
sexual,
untouchable
Life

in which i cannot
behold

much. less partake

She picks another
orange from
my tree
and

continues to peel,

my layers
one after: the other

exposed bits
of me
collect at; her (feet

i watch) with
voyeuristic
anticipation
as my distant past

digests
in the pit of; Her stomach

Her intentions

and fascinations,
escape me

not to mention
Her Self
once the last

orange has been plucked
from. its branch

i accept that
some people,
love

fitfully

their
privilege to love
transcended by

the advantage
of.
total perception

i am poised
to give myself
up
for a life,
without, feeling

longing:

or heartache

i am
determined to, explore
Her to, explain Her to
be consumed in Her
as rightly as she has, consumed Me

and

i doubt not that

when She elopes to the
other
orchards and
vineyards

of, M’ans creation
i will,

follow, Her

religiously

from one

life
to. the next




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