I have not moaned in weeks.

My fingers are continuously, and disturbingly, dry.
They don't even bother to go exploring anymore.

The jungles are growing thicker, keeping out
Not only eager rivermen, but also the sunlight.

I am clasping a dark, tangled box of secrets
Between my legs. I have no urge to open it.

The thought of sex sickens me, makes me retch.
This is not the shock: the shock comes from suddenly

Remembering that once I craved such contact,
Stretched myself willingly toward the ceiling.

My bed is a different place, no longer the site of trysts
And midnight alliances, only solitary silences.

To speak of jungles was to use the wrong analogy;
I am wintered, snowbanked solid, wreathed in ice.

I have lost the ability even to feel the cold.

03/17/2004

Posted on 03/17/2004
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