I.
She is swollen in her excess, pumping out the fluid of
Her overfed flesh, fitted in femaleness, in fertility –
In terror in the shape of an indefatigable lack.

II.
I slide from her side, separate from her dark-red room
Attentive and methodical, she demands neither blood
Nor permanence, no split-goat with his identical eyes
Upwards and unsealed, fat with flies and honey.

III.
I am the plucked fruit, impenetrably pure –
Godlike and uneaten.