Colleen Anderson

Cuntipotent

 I’m tired of being cliticized
cut off from a womb of feeling
and accused of being frigid

I want more than my clit flicked
as if it were a fly
or poked and pushed like the panic button
quick uncontrolled jabs lacking
a vision of what is turned on

I want a stroke, a touch,
a word whispered along my flesh
a mind and body participatory event for two
not the clinical technician’s observation
point of a test under way

I’m tired of explaining my cunt handling
instruction book lessons
and then find them unheeded
in a layman’s interpretation

I want my vagina to be fondled
not prodded as if it were a hole to be plugged
blocking emotion and senses
that well from within
enough to slake any burning blade

I want to make love
and if not that then the love
of making out not making off
with a disembodied feeling
or an unfeeling body

I want sex to be a making
of two beings working as one
satisfying, caressing
caring for all the needs of two
a feeling motion done together

Cremating Love 

He thinks she is asleep
slumbering like soft wood
His arm moves rhythmically
in the blanketing night

In times that feel so distant
aged like the dried and shriveled crevice
between her legs
she wanted and longed for his touch

He claimed he needed her
but some secret abhorrence
recoiled his fingers
from her skin’s suppleness

She burned—consumption
dried waterfall tears, frustrated sweat
He could not see the need
nor feel the embers glowing deep

He claimed celibate love
denying his own flesh
from her as she dissipated
consumed by her love

She hears the dry rasp
skin on skin
A beat to still her heart
not touch her skin

She turns to ash
The cavern
will soon suck her in
as she lies sleepless
cold
alone. 

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