Valerie Wetlaufer
Unlike Lesser Gods, I Need No Disguises to Woo
I have fucked all your women,
lain in that bed of rashes with your wives,
your sisters, even a spry mother-in-law.
The youngest ones bathed my upper lip,
while the sullen maternals insisted on feeding me.
They lined up by my tent flap with their offerings,
and some requested to sleep beside me, their tiny backs
pressed against my knees, a cascade of tangled girls
on Egyptian cotton that never caught a stain.
Yet one by one, they rose from me, trekking back
to their brothers, their husbands, resentfully
bearing lists of chores and children. Errands to run
and appeasements to be made.
I have fucked all your women and sent them home,
dresses wilting and smelling of my palms,
dark-eyed girls with feisty teeth and sweat.
Each woman whispered a wish upon departing,
a request they feared I would grant.
These wishes are for you—for thick broth
and wings, sons and softer deaths. No need
to make appeals for themselves—
I am what each of them wanted.