Herself Myself
for D.B.A.

she is with herself all the time
imagine that

can scratch herself
or put a finger in her mouth, or in an ear
or in any other opening she chooses

all I have to put into her, into her essence
not into her actually

is my poem, my pen in a poem
one after another, I poke into her

those rags of those unfortunate children
in Arthur Rimbaud's Les Poètes de sept ans
come to mind

rags with feces covered,
I recall and don't know why

want to clean her after she has defecated
thought of this excites me, to be this intimate

I'd envy her her access to herself
a little less then

access to her, I find, is what I crave
I want her more and more
to be mine; us two to be one


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
5:17 a.m. 16.04.10