But sex is not just which part of whose body was where. It’s the relationship between the participants, the furniture in the room, or the leaves on the tree, what gets said before and after, the emotions—act of love, act of lust, act of hate, act of indifference, act of violence, act of despair, act of manipulation, act of hope. Those things have to be part of it.
She is lake-water in April as she lies
In her depths binding poplar and eucalyptus
Fishes or stars burning between her thighs
Shadow of birds scarcely hiding her sex
Her breasts two still villages under a peaceful sky
This woman lying here like a white stone
Like water in the moon in a dead crater
Not a sound in the night not moss nor sand
Only the slow budding of my words.
“Woman, whose thighs are like the desert palm where golden dates fall from, your breasts speak seven tongues and I was made to listen to them all. Give me the chance to avoid this storm, this sweeping love, this wintry air, and to be convinced, to blaspheme, and to enter the flesh of things. Give me the chance to be the one to walk on water.”
I’ll be your harlequin harlot Dressed up in pigtails and paint Or your temptress, seduction implicit Alluring in black silk and lace I’ll be your Hester Prynn Or your chaste little schoolgirl with grace I’ll be every woman Astounding, risqué To make your flesh quiver And tempt you to stay