My secret yearnings
from a place far beyond the heart
a place where the moss and fern are moist and smell like riches and treasures
a place where the folds of my femaleness, my cathedral grove,
my secret garden yearning to be tilled, turned,
planted with the seeds of forget-me-nots, bleeding hearts,
yearning mostly to be handled knowingly,
again and again,
till no more resistance, no more denial, no more false modesty,
no more pretending that there is no desire,
saying "I'm o.k., really, I am", when it isn't true.
He has no idea who I am and what I want
and the promises of swooning, of being transported,
Gothic style, just don't come true.
Somewhere between the Tupperware, needlepoint and fake orgasms,
over coffee at the upscale sunday brunch place
the heart droops, all desire beaten to a pulp.
Forget me not, forget me not, forget me not