Cytherea
She is the goddess of a certain kind
of night without a moon or passing cars,
even the planes rerouted
to gentle landings at distant airports.
Darkness. And then her presence in the room,
across the room, the light
from somewhere adequate to hint
at thigh and breast, at the incomparable.
It is as if the latent, vast
machinery of night terrors, of childhood
itself had been retooled
to produce its opposite, the good.
She speaks its a rule
of these appearances. To some
in the treble, bemused by the body,
of Marilyn Monroe,
to those with higher tastes with a lower
breathlessness as if
the tightness in both your bellies
forced these few words.
But she must speak, though a goddess, and you
must assure her
that she can only get pregnant
if she wants to;
that there is no such thing,
for her, as disease;
that you will go back in time
to erase all its instances
and those of rape, frigidity,
impotence, violence all ugliness.
For the gods are not interested
in our usual, consoling
metaphoric flights;
only in youthful bodies
and brave words, the promises
one makes when one will promise anything.
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