Sina Queyras

if you open your mouth, ache.


What Cixous has to say about jouissance makes sense
in the flash of skin, your legs when your toes scrape

the full moon, a whole ocean pulling at my tongue. But
outside of thighs I have nothing to say. Impossible

to concentrate on the reading. When you caress your pen
I feel your fingers on my thigh and when I moan finally,

it’s not because the presentation has moved me.
What do I know of Margaret Cavendish? That she did not

have the pleasure of your mouth on the inside of her elbow.
And I won’t disagree that women invented the novel since

poems may not be large enough to contain them. When
you raise your hand to move a curl from your mouth I cannot

contain my own.

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