Hers was the untasted cup until he told her
that he wanted to paint music,
plus other word-woven whimsies.
All so much bullshit to us who know the day
of his departure and the long after
date of her death.
But his lisping did then get her naked as
a new grave, limitless life still before her;
and with the nuzzling delicacy
of a roe deer
his lapping brought her
to her very first convulsing orgasm.
A narcissistic revelation:
of course she wanted more.
With occasional spider-touch
vibrator interludes (more of a sympathetic quiver,
minus the pelvic bone-bump of a man-attached
phallus) she did nonetheless continue to seek men
to be tongue-taught her needs.
So did she shout-by-sigh become,
this one-time debutante
of the bedchamber, Lady Quim.
Man still following man
she was celebrated,
come her gasping demise,
the grandest of les grande morte,
and still is today
only for whom she was bedded by.
Featured Image by Alexandra Pelletier
Toronto, see you this Saturday at unwanted!