beauty up a wire
beauty up a chicken wire
zithering geisha pluck.
beauty trying to please me Please let me come in!
twanging sync of wiry keening
beauty tells of her meow
—an old story, a ballad passed down, an old country folk tune that went like this:
A young woman gave herself over
to man after gouging penis
gave herself over to plunges and plunderings
long moments of belonging and possessing. And when each one withdrew, when each one left, he left with her on his hands like salmon veils swimming downstream, like sedimenting fingers, like dirty plunging toes along a dirt road, home, he ran off with some of her juice.
Running dry with such leavings, beauty keened, now, not for any singling man, or loss of a particular man, but for emptiness of her womb, not unlike the absence of his. Twined and wound the sound any winedark cat in mournful heat might make, bleeding and bereft.
Doesn’t a cat climb to a high perch? A fence? Or a window sill on a second floor? Atop a Volubolis column? A fire escape, or somewhere like that? To sing, to chant, to volubly pray to the furthest reaches she can get to, and cry and sob her begging body on the most visible exposed audible perch, the highest plateau from which to implore any passing male to consume her and complete her and release her into bloody possession?
beauty doesn’t want to be free! She wants to be drenched in his arrival, his coming, his withdrawal, the whole flow of it! beauty wants to be pinned under him, powerfully gentle male containing her, containing her, prodding her to succumb to the slow wet dance suffusing his penis and o dance finer and deeper! And like a long-arriving dark miracle, she’d give her last strength to clawed hands strangling in shrieks of successive slips and down in little, little drips, in little drops, falling, trailing, failing, trickling down the ragged rust of that adobe pit.