print versionREBEKAH ZHURAW
Sonnet for Nietzsche
I don’t care if you don’t love me.
It is my feeling,
my body’s one thought,
rising from the wet
grip of my crotch
and fumbling with the ruptured language circuits
while the mind frolics elsewhere, somewhere in the Hesperides . . .
It is my bad aim,
my cumshot gone awry, dangling lewdly
from the corner of a mouth
slack with god syllables. My religious metaphors.
My foolish wish.
Mine—you can share it or not, fear it or not.
Just let me feel it. 