Not for pleasure alone do I pleasure
standing in a dark corner of our home
leaning into your hand fuck
while in their room the children toss in sleep.

If not for paradise than for what
do I rut, incorrigible in the palm of your hand?

Damsels I have been, in waiting, larcenous
all my olden days ago, the one of me righted
to never love, the other of me clasped entirely in attendance.

Now is she whole parceled in me.

Now brilliant, in truthe, in soule, in hearte, verily.
What is true manifests truly against my ancient thieving topology.

See also:

• The book Swoon by Victoria Redel.
• Our catalog of poetry titles.