The talisman

I do not wear a collar.

There is no chain of paper clips around my ankle.
My only piercings are one in each ear,
done at sixteen in a jewelry store
in Greenwich Village. Afterwards,
we wryly descended to a
demonstration fallout shelter.

The beast hasn't ordered a tattoo,
nor branded me as he has others.
If you looked at me, you'd find
no mark that I am owned, and
possessed of a passion
to suffer and serve.

I need no mark.
I never forget.
But sometimes,
often,
I long for a talisman,
a sign that he found me,
a sign that he took me,
and made me his own.

And now he has granted my wish.
Nothing so standard as collar or chain.
Instead just a spring clip, one that
he bought to fasten his chain
to itself or a bar, as if he could
think that I'd wander or stray.
It lives in my pocket now.
I reach in at odd times and
fondle it like a rabbit's foot
or his cock. It grows hot
from my thigh, hot as desire,
hot as my ass after a beating.
I reach in my pocket and
fondle this sign of freedom
freely relinquished. A smile
swims through my veins.
I am owned.
I am content.