I wonder
what you do in those retreats,
those wanderings into the woods.
What do you accomplish?
What do you fulfill?
Do you hunger perhaps, for the taste of
luxury and collapse?

And I can see you,
bow and arrow on your shoulders,
waiting for the deer.
And what is it that you do, coming back
sweaty and nervous, giddy and wanting,
lusting.
Long-haired, skinny man, dark eyes
and pale-skinned-
you come home    wet.
And I wonder if I can still love you
after all the women
who have followed your steps,
eaten from your mouth, kissed it,
loved you.

You come back hot, red veins
like demons in your eyes. Dark shadows
thirst for what you’ve already
tasted.
Are you some-type of prophet?
Do you think yourself a God, a prince?
Surely no God eats with his fingers.

But do tell me instead that I am a queen,
yours to take and ravish and hold.

And fall from your mountain,
and come down to earth.
For prophets love all women,
and I desire you
for only myself.