Listen: get on your knees, your horse skin isn’t here
yet, but the gimp mask will have to do.
You don’t need it unzipped, real love
doesn’t have safety words.
You’ll earn the key to the handcuffs. Now crawl
here. I require your attention.
Flip yourself over and play dead like a dog.
Keep your paws in the air.
Don’t worry, the knife is for show, but I could cut a little
cross into the surface of your neck
like a little cup parents give toddlers,
reach three fingers inside you,
rip the fruit out and eat it in front of you. I won’t,
but I could. And that’s all I need you to know.
I’ll eat your flesh, limb by limb, if you don’t
get hard. You won’t need to enjoy it. That comes with time.
We won’t get dressed in the morning.
I’ll remain nude all day, maybe play with fig leaves
just to tease you: one on each nipple
and a few down south. Green is the color
of passion. I’ll lie with the animal fur
on top of the leather sofa and let you paint me
like the goddess Venus, nude, not naked.
If you paint me naked, I’ll make you eat
the canvas and lap the paint from my skin.
And if you try to robe me, I’ll strap the ties
around your neck, hang you
from the pear tree in the backyard, whip you
and let the neighbors throw stones at your body.
I’ll scratch your eyes out and spit on you.
If you try to cover yourself, I’ll put a horse’s head
over you, cuff your hands behind your back
and tie you to the pear tree for three days,
until you understand my body and your body
are temples of worship and shame
is an invention of man and fear.
I know it hurts,
but that is what you get for mouthing off.
I’ll break every rib
in your body if you don’t learn your place.
It will hurt me
far more than it hurts you. We’re one flesh.
I don’t take birth control. I won’t let you
regulate my cycles. I’ll bleed
when I bleed and birth when I birth.
You’ll learn to tame that cock,
pull out and mix the dirt with your semen.
My teeth marks on your shoulder will remind you
that if you can’t control yourself, I’ll take a hunk
of your meat with me. I have no master and control
my womb and birthing canal. If you have a problem,
then you never should have tasted the fruit of my garden.
Do you like these?
They are snakeskin high heels.
Lick them, go on, lick them.
This is to remind you of who I am
when we are outside our little paradise.
You need to remember whose feet you worship at.
Don’t cry. This is the price you paid
for a taste of freedom with me.
Chase Troxell graduated with his B.A. from the University of Findlay where he was also the first managing editor for Slippery Elm. He has poems published in GNU Journal, Mochilla Review, Sheila-Na-Gig Online and Eunoia Review. He lives in Findlay, OH with his two beautiful daughters, Felicity and Leona.