I allow the acupuncturist
to twist needles into my heels.
One sharp tap, and small pressure inwards
until I gasp and splay involuntary fingers,
then he moves to the next point.
When he has mapped my pain, I’m left to reflect
while pinpoints thrum along legs and feet.
Last night's beast licks up his lips for a kiss;
he is all mouth and wet,
plunging response from my throat,
spooled up from my groin.
I feel the flame of ox-blood
rouse. I’m so afraid to let it flare,
knowing my lust will measure
and consume his if unleashed.
So afraid that where I open myself
I will feel phosphorescence morph
into rat's feet scrambling through veins,
afraid if I release my own beast
we will be consumed by his ravenous juices.
The concupiscent slap, grunt and gasp,
mistakes lust for effect or fullness,
the craven act, for freedom.
Perhaps this harms no one,
but I myself, in my deepest core,
feel the re-direction of energy flow.
When the acupuncturist returns
for another twist of his fishbone-fine needles,
fragile silver elucidates my life streams.
I hear the scrabble as rat feet
flee the glow.