Vagina Envy

I am laid out on the mortuary table:

The wood warm and brown

Against this petrified skin;

The blunted edge of the blood trench,

So sharp I feel it

In my bones.

I may as well be dead.

You, my surgeon, my saviour,

Are grinning like a knife:

The dust motes,

A halo round your head

In dim shafts

Of late afternoon sunlight.

You are

What I want to be.

I want to feel

The pain of that dark red hole

That makes you so wholly real:

I want to touch the roots

Where soil is born and reborn;

And to sink away

From this man flesh

That is not me.

Caress me with your blade

And allow me to be unmade.

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