by Rebecca Tamás

This man is an angel
he is not a man

I reject the penis as my chosen ontology
even when his penis is in my hand
even when his mouth is open like a sodden

The theory of this man is
to be without theory
to turn over
and do exactly what I say
when I say it

When I take this man
I think that love didn’t occur
until now
love was a placeholder and a nice
between the man and the little
oozing gap
where we should have been

If you are not yourself
who are you
is the kind of stupid question
he doesn’t ask
he knows how to watch as
I rise like an alien sun
brightening the first day of a new planet

When we are in bed
there is no fixed subject
only the see-saw of the morning
the pink flowers recommending
themselves over and over
a bird fucking its own opaque joy

When I hate
and hold this man
he is safe
lucky one
he is part of the hate
coiled snugly on my

This man’s girl face
his affecting womb

they are outside

Perhaps when I come
and destroy everything

he will be alright

Featured image © Felicia Simion

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