She has to be careful to move in steady, gentle circles,
to avoid rubbing against the grain of her thighs.
It builds, but random thoughts run through her head
and distract her, like her new Stickley sofa and loveseat--
Oh, and the rose hedge out front, the spiny thorns and
the bleeding, the capsaicin oil still on her fingertips,
Organic, cathartic, singular: but in the end, she's still
crying.
Ce s'appelle la petite mort,
cela ce qu'ils disent,
il doit etre un crime
pour la faire vous-meme.*
