*A DIALOGIC TRICKLE*
Many times, it is good to be alone with oneself, touching the body,
feeling its grooves, its contours, its sudden plunges. Well, by now,
they’re not sudden anymore.
On occasions, depending on how relaxed I am, my fingertips find the
increased wetness at the entrance of my vagina to be both surprising and
erotic. It’s just a wonderful find to touch moistness. Makes me feel
This forms part of this night’s simmering pleasure initiated by a
rendezvous with these ancient breasts, their silent screams, voices
they’ve heard collectively through the ages, voices of little ones
searching in their primal arrival for that nipple, even more, those
coming in the name of love seeking feeding, cause the source of such
feeding is with mother and she, only she has it now.
Anthropological. This is not erotic. This does not attract like the
plunge that I find now again as I look at the texture of my pubic hairs.
How tender the trickle, a tenderness far from the rapids of economic
theory and its tendency to waste or overproduce.
I had heard of those women who became so swampy, so wet at a touch, even
when it is they touching themselves. Mine is measured, not in the
objective sense, but in proportion to my body’s own need. Wow! How
brilliant the moonlight!
I need look at my face and eyes in the mirror. The telephone rings —.