Manifold
I spread my gender without might or suffering,
unfold my pleated sex. Ghostly, I extend the spores
of my skeleton, and haunt you with my me. Still,
the past taps me like a lamprey’s oral disc, and let me
tell you, that shit hurts. Takes me days to get back.
Back to my sloped magnet-eyes and soft-serve hips,
to the carousel of laughter, moonlight on a spoon.
There’s nothing more sensual than your tenderness.
With my body, I am, and I am splendour. With my
sleek bodega, and ripe testicles—growing a pair.
Two, taken together, at the brink, like Starsky
& Hutch—or Thelma & Louise. They’re having a ball
weeping on the car-hood. I am, and I am splendour.
Uncoupling the lethal double-joint that strikes me.
Becoming three and four and five, now, a numberless
becoming. Not man or snake or wife. Neither cause
nor mark of violence. Having said my peace, I can be
anything, pluperfect. Stars elapse over my throat.
Licking me with spit & vinegar, hot foam down
the backs of my knees. I’m shifting from one thing
to my loveliest others. In a world better than
this one. Looking to my fellow for fellow-feeling,
I note there the slight almond of its quiver. And every
arrow finds me, shakes me with pleasure, for I am
home now.
© Nikki Sheppy