By Choice

It's really not about
threading the cord
once wrapped
around her wrists
and tying it off
so that
she is stranded,
unable to move,
and left available
to me,
in her wet
and needy service.

It's really not about
how her face
is left wide open,
her mouth made to fill,
and her hands
and breasts
kept astride
the pillowed suface
of the bed.

It's not really about
the force that's used
to gain an access
to her catacombs,
and ramshackle resin
runs arising
as it spreads
to call attention
to her needs.

She needs it,
to feel at peace,
a reanouncing race
with form
and grace
and function,
a sense
that she is made
to take it all
and bury deep
within the culture
of it all.

She relives it,
and can only think
again
and again
and again
how this was
what it was,
and this is
how it has to be,
to be,
to make it home
for her,
she has to have it,

and the train
at this station,
it has a passing through
that guards itself,
complete
and reliving the notion
of it all.

runningturtle87