I suppose I should be frightened

I am learning more about what burns inside my demon muse. He tries to spare me, but sometimes I stumble upon information... He hadn't told me about the activity he refers to below. Our schedules last week were too complicated to accommodate the meeting we both wanted. His needs were too pressing. He couldn't wait.

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Probably worked to your advantage, since I have been trying to think of a word for the session and can only come up with savage. To share a little more of the insight you seemed to enjoy last time, I will say that afterwards, I was almost nauseated, and not in the existential/Sartre way, but actually physically sick, sort of. Fun, huh?

I suppose I should be frightened.
I suppose I should be buying
iron bars for all my windows,
bars to keep the werewolf
and his fangs from breaking in
and tearing strips of bloody flesh
and anguished screams from my white throat.
At least the house is brick,
cinder block and brick so that
the wolf can’t blow it down.

He is a fearsome beast.
I never would deny
that hungers such as haunt his
days and dreams are not the sort
that any cautious pantheist
would want to tempt with
sexiness unconscious and with
innocent allure.
And yet he draws me back.
I just cannot resist the –
no, I don’t know what it is but
better judgment never had a chance
and so I always wear his chain,
as real as if he’d soldered
a steel collar round my neck.

It’s better that I know.
Better not to see or hear or feel
the worst that he can do,
but better, too, that I can get these
tiny peeks inside his darkened cave
so that I know a little more of
man and beast I loyally serve.
And in the end,
while I might crave surrender
to his fiery intensity, and
greedy lust and passion as he
crashes through defenses that
had never been expected to
protect from such as he;
while I might even yearn
to show that I would take
the pain that he knows well
can never fully sate
the fiend when at his worst;
there may be times like this,
when he might think I’d flee the scene,
and yet this silly poet,
who really should know better,
has just this foolish wish –
to hold his head in her bare lap
until the sickness ebbs away,
while singing Yiddish lullabies
in that unguarded breathy voice
that makes him tightly grip the chain
and never set me free.

Meanwhile, I grow my nails.


[Posted with volunteered permission.
The last line is a private reference.]