Take your hands
away from your balls.
Stow them safely
behind your back
and breathe.

You need to know
exactly how much
I could hurt you.
How much
you could take
before you break.
Everyone does.

It’s the not knowing
that terrifies.
Will your capacity
to endure
ever live up
to your own
exacting standards?

Isn’t that
what you fear,
my love?

That place,
beyond tears or doubts,
beyond words or confusions,
no ambiguity,
no lukewarm
sentiments.

Nothing but fierce
and purifying light.
Nothing but the truth.

How long has it been
since you imagined
bathing in
that radiance?

You wonder
if it will unman you,
but only long enough
to know it will.
You wonder
if you will come apart
in my hands like a child,
and you surely will.

But they will be  my hands.
That much I promise.
And that is the only promise
that truly matters.

10 Responses

  1. Not your best poetry or flash fiction: but as a study of femeninity, the power of the weaker sex against male whims, desires, and fears, his surrendering admissions: a superior work. The smallest most delicate hand, stroking the largest and most arrogant member, produces a surrender which is as terryfying as it is deirable. “Putty in her hands” and older cliches, have a truth we seldom explore. The implicit power is frightening.

  2. This is so strong and lucid. Yet, when I read it the first time (and second, actually) I saw “You know exactly how much I can hurt you” which changes the meaning significantly for me. From the promise of a first time, it becomes the re-engagement of a relationship, taking it to a new level. I love how thought-provoking your work can be.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.