I’d rather believe the fantasy that is her
the first time I lied about my sexual history
we were drunk with overlapping arms in a graveyard
funnily, I believe this is where the living go to
empty their remorse
the author of Frankenstein’s
mother died in childbirth
infected by the aching body that became of her daughter
I think of esther who witnessed
the bewitching birthing, the widening
vagina switched open like a cat eye
I’d like to believe that these women
who wrote and wept and died
equipped with the knowledge of grief
the smell of rot
liked sex, mostly because they
enjoyed feeling someone
else inside of them, only temporarily (we slip
into one another)
cold, warm and then colder
cold as death itself
her sprawling body commands desire
Deleuze imagined that Kafka
wrote his letters because he couldn’t come
i.e. achieve orgasm via the putrid body
like him, I’d rather empty my desire in the postman and
let nature take care of the rest
here: when I tell you I believe that Mary fucked
her beloved Percy for the first time
on top of her dead mother’s grave I
am telling you I believe that desire is
open wide, anamnesis, cunts
my ivy wrapped heart coming undone
I maintain that the most tortured of us
and by us I mean women
the only legion that has and will ever exist
are brimming with desire, bursting with yearning
for life, love
touchtouchtouch
and implore you, go find yourself one
and take her to her favourite graveyard on the first date
Bio:
Megan Finkel is a queer poet living in New York City. She is a student of Comparative Literature and Russian Language at NYU and is an intern for Hanging Loose Press. Megan enjoys writing on topics such as the body, mental health, spiritualism, love and sex. Find her on Twitter @megfinkel.