(I)
Save the roses that I sent you,
save not the petals but the thorns.
Press them to your breasts when you stop
to think of me. Cup the stems in
your open palm, so that the thorns
pierce both your breasts and hand. Yes, my
love, puncture your flesh with my love.
Look down; you have drawn blood drops, yes?
Don�t touch, they are a vase of rose
buds for you to remember me
by. Next, take up the stems once more.
Pierce each nipple with a thorn, em-
bed it to the hilt. Bite your lip
and close your eyes but don�t cry out:
You are brave; you have no need to cry.
Now, wear roses suspended from
your rosebud nipples while you play
and think of me. When you finish,
unpierce your breasts, then scratch my name
and �Master� in your flesh with thorns
(II)
The roses that you sent have faded;
The petals have turned brown and brittle
And there is no longer any scent left in their fibers.
A week ago the leaves fell off shriveled stems
That have dried and become quite hard.
Do I only just imagine or is it possible
The thorns become sharper for the drying?
Your instructions have been followed in
Every detail several times since your letter arrived;
I think of you quite often, you see.
Hurry home, beloved, already the thorns
Are stained with blood and my flesh
Scarred and sore. Perhaps I shall send these
Well-used stems to you as a blood offering
Of obedience. I live in the hope that
One day you will explain the reason for
These instructions. Until then, I am fondly yours,
Scabbed with rosebuds give by you in love.
I wait daily by the window watching
Eagerly for your return. Next time I write,
I may send you back the rose bud stems.
Come home soon my beloved and lover. My flesh
Aches to be pierced by yours.
We trade
red lipstick kisses �
a joke of sorts �
cyberspace affection
that has little meaning
beyond the limits
of a computer screen
and electric impulse.
Yet the impulse is there
and electricity
that makes us squirm
and look around,
hoping nobody is reading
over our shoulders.
But the joke's on us
for trading hearts
and kisses;
affections too dangerous
to reenact in real life,
being electrically aware
of chemical impulses
that would over-rule
our best intentions
given the proper circumstances
For my Master, my Beloved, my all
In my Master's house
there are many rooms and I
wear silver chains in
all of them, with silver bells
so that he knows all my ways.
These chains are beautiful to
me, they show my Master's care.
I put them on each
day with joy; they mark me as
his own. I know that I am his.
velvet smooth fire
and rose petal silk
seductive fingertips
brushing oh so soft face
flowers sweeping down
lighting in sun-kissed hair
then dislodged by a sudden shower
of icy drops falling
on fevered skin
warm satin moisture
giving welcome relief
Because of W-----
My hand glistens with my strength;
it drips with fragrant honey
coating my fingers with salt-sweet moisture
that runs and pools in the palm of my hand.
I am woman, female, I
am filled with the strength of my
desire, overflowing with need to
kneel; metaphysically bound to a Master
and owned by the strength of
his desire to mold and
prune an equal yet opposite mind to
beauty of form and thought. I am one who
finds no shame in slavery, who
knows she possesses strength in
public silence: I am a mystery.
I am warm and willing, I
respond viscously to my
Master's voice; he bends and binds existing
strengths into dramatic sweeps and curves.
I am woman, a tree that
grows on rocks and is
shaped by winds; strong in storm, graceful at rest:
Bonsai controlled by a Master gardener.
Song of Songs
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