Maybe it is the shyness of the pride
he has when he puts my hand down to feel
the hardness of his cock I hadn't tried
by any conscious gesture to raise,
yet it rose for my soft presence in the bed:
there was nothing I did to earn its praise
but be alive next to it. Maybe it is
the softness of want beneath his delight
at his body going on with his . . .
his will, really, his instructions . . . that
surges inside me as a sort of surrender
to the fact that I am, that I was made, that
there is nothing I need do to please but be.
To do nothing but be, and this be wanted:
so, this is love. Look what happened, he says as he
watches my hand draw out what it did not raise,
purpled in sleep. The surge inside me must
come from inside me, where the world lies,
just as the prick stiffened to amaze us
came from a rising inside him. The blessing
we feel is knowing that out there is nothing.
The world inside us has come to praise us.
Molly Peacock, Cornucopia: New and Selected Poems, W.W. Norton & Company, 2002.