I shave my snatch
stripping it down
like one strips paint and varnish built up for
years
on a solid Queen Anne end table. A steady hand
is needed around the curves of legs and lips
to keep from nicking the surface.
I am taking it back to its original intentions.
It’s initial encounters
with language and touch.
Cross-legged in front
of the mirror
the lips open like a perianth.
I understand in this moment why
a field of flowers is called a church.
This posture imitates offering
and church vocabulary falls in place
as originating from the cunt.
The two-horned red
devil
is the two-horned
fallopian tubes mytholized by priests.
The fish-shaped labia revised as ichthys,
Jesus Christ, Son of God.
Unshaved or shaved, at the crux of my thighs
sits Medusa, the terrible Gorgon
turning men into stone.
The male god is an angry thief.
Let the Israelis pray in Jerusalem,
Catholics can keep Rome.
It is lovers who worship at Hera’s alter,
womb, the great fish
of the abyss.
At this aqueduct
for my pleasure. My cunt.
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