I feel my personal Bluebeard awaken,
hacking away at the clinging wives of my identity
Your Descartes eyes
put in doubt my existence
except as your odalisque and consort
I wish you wouldn't touch
the threads of my cottonwool soul,
soaking it with the liquid
of your jealousy-
a stain my healing detergent
cannot quite wash off
My mind teems with obscure analogies
to the clumsy hold you have,
wondering to itself the reason for it,
but unable to explain
(adequately)
the tallow my strength is
to the Zippo of your love.
1994
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