Fictionalize me,

martyr me to your

crosses

and lost causes,

give me a form

by which my double

can register touch,

and seeds of desire,

twitching and sputtering

in the blue flames

of fabulous opera,

make me the husky baritone

to your soprano shrieking

like a harpooned dolphin in heat,

the two of us, sharing the mount

of impale,

and writhing desperately

to get free,

or to die more deeply.

Make me the singer

whose mouth

you stuff with secret notes,

saying traces of you,

the distilled essence

and bruised print,

reside in the fragrant spells

of ink rivering across pages,

never running dry,

perpetual moistness

dark as it is fine,

Swallow

then sing me back out,

you insist,

continuing to feed

scraps and tatters

of

blood-inked-you

down my throat.

Make me a totem,

upon which every toy legend

is playfully encrypted,

shape me

into laughing water,

so you can always find

the humor in drowning,

scrape me

off the back of my brain,

whose unlit scabrous hallways

lead to interior antechambers

where very few visitors

have ever been.

Fictionalize me,

from the starstuff

drawn from your own

private cosmos,

and then,

devour

what you make of me,

because goddesses

need to eat too,

and their own playthings

are what they most desire

and hunger for.