I was sick of being a woman, sick of the pain, the irrelevant detail of sex, my own concavity uselessly hungering and emptier whenever it was filled, and filled finally by its own emptiness, seeking the garden of solitude instead of men.
The white bed in the green garden-- I looked forward to sleeping alone the way some long for a lover.
Even when you arrived, I tried to beat you away with my sadness, my cynical seductions, and my trick of turning a slave into a master.
And all because you made my fingertips ache and my eyes cross in passion that did not know its own name.
Bear, beast, lover of the book of my body, you turned my pages and discovered what was there to be written on the other side.
And now I am blank for you, a tabula rasa ready to be printed with letters in an undiscovered language by the great press of our love.