The One
is an ache
ratpacked in
the cleave of the heart,
shameful secret hope
of the reality-adjusted
post-modern woman.
While we
talk of vibrators
and nice, tight asses
and how sickened we are
by sentimentality,
the spectre of the One
Hovers in
the unmentionable
dimension of desire
like a halo too heavy
to put on.
With the curious liberation
of being shot out of
a cannon backwards
I’m going to say it:
I want the one,
and I don’t care
who knows it.