So bondage is a big part of it, after all-
that old art of rendering a lover submissive:
a tactic, a strategy. Denying somebody’s body
the power to move denies that body the power
to be believed. Isn’t that what’s so sexual?
The intimate plea? The fear you can’t go back?
Until your lover throws you over on your back.
Maybe a woman becomes a man, then. After all,
it’s the head games that conjure up the sexual:
which one agrees, this time, to be submissive;
which one straps on the fetishes, the powers,
we make to make the body yield up the body…
O the rendering, the surrendering of the body!
We so much want to go back, all the way back…
You stand before a mirror, naked, the power
of someone’s eyes, words, erasing you, the all
you claim to be. Belief can be so submissive:
desire, not truth. But being believed is sexual
vantage: the crying out, the echo, the sexual
need you never knew could subjugate the body…
So you cry out at the idea of her, submissive,
yes, her hands your hands, yes, leading you back,
her voice your voice, o god, eyes lips cunt all
mirroring, yes, the glory, o god yes, the power…
Later, you wipe off the remnants of the power
with Kleenex. When you get down to the sexual
level, you get sexually levelled, that’s all:
doesn’t discipline make a believer of the body?
You whisper no name but hers in the going back.
Tomorrow, it will be her turn to be submissive:
the ties that bind render you both submissive
You’ll need her to believe your plea, her power;
she’ll need you to escort her all the way back,
before the life alongside this life, her body
alongside yours: ravenous, indifferent, sexual.
There, anything might happen, anything at all,
if all you need is to be believed. The power
of the sexual plea masquerades as the submissive
act. The body is the flower of the going back.