open your lips with rosewater drenched on a cotton pad. mist it on your creases and recite poems on the toilet. take a cold silver vessel. pour three pools of bitter oil. move it into your mouth. swallow. any morning full of empty basins. cup, sink out of water, aching belly. my womb is exhausted. i’d like to write about a phallus occasionally but the literary penis has always been off limits. or everywhere i can’t say which it is both.
contact the goddesses. if they don’t answer they’re outside of you somewhere making love in a meadow. a reply came late by pigeon courier: “it doesn’t count if you don’t orgasm,” signed by Flaubert’s Emma.
the following things either matter or don’t matter: when you wake up, if you get out of bed, what you do at all on any day. the literary vagina is aimless, overused, unsatisfied. i like Flaubert but he’s a puppet master. i’m not supposed to like Emma, but i do like her a lot.