Divided by the staff lay seven, long years. Touching and experimental moments boggled and wrestled playfully with cognition: systematic and jointed. My left hand still holds the day I changed ***. My being, new to my knowing. I was supposedly cursed, but later I confessed to King Zeus the truth: women, be there pleasure rarer, feel the sweetest flowers of love-making. I digress, my strike against the serpent lovers did curse me, but trapped for seven years behind soft, shifting ******* were utilized fully as I found myself wrapped in blankets of wheatgrass and sheathed in the starlight permeating ceilings of tree branches. I could be touched in every carved *****, smooth and soft. I could never tire of searching and wondering why, as a man, blind and sensed, I had never seeked true self efficacy. In those moonless nights, I’d moan my old name, sexing myself, “Tiresias, feel this and remember,” I’d say. Some crevices so soft and silent it would take me years to discover, as I found myself shouting and begging for freedom, but then would surrender to the burning that blazed anatomical layers I once conjured in my youth.
Tucked between pangs of hunger and ease of the past, I found rippling serpents that once brought me womanhood and with another strike of my staff, I morphed in regression. I believed the seven year dream, I honorable to him with my experience in this truth. I’ll continue to remember.
My body, an adventure - I discovered with myself for years.