POETRY
A Two-Minute Pleasure
A woman’s worth
In a world with confusing pronouns and misgender-ism, this is a tribute to all natural born women.
I could be a slut, I could be a whore, My painted talons could claw into your flesh and make you ask for more.
Sweet talk, Trash talk, Pillow Talk, Porn talk.
But that’s just all too easy.
A woman who knows her worth is more than a two-minute pleasure. She is a time-released opioid. Like a perfume, she is a three-tier notation.
My top notes will demand your attention for a few hours. My myrrh to your frankincense, my cedarwood base fused with neroli and bergamot will keep you captivated. But my middle note, like a Napoleon love letter to Josephine, rich, warm and opulent, will enthrall you for days, weeks and months. My scent will embalm your soul, preserve your remains like how it did with the great Ramesses.
That’s how it bewitched the adoring Walter Raleigh In ‘Poems to Cynthia’. More than willing, he placed his cloak over a puddle so his mighty Elizabeth can keep her feet dry. But cross her you do not for such gallantry means naught if you don’t appreciate a woman’s generosity. Trapped in a tower he was, and soon Walter Raleigh’s head was gone.
Was that a woman, or was that a monster? That was a Queen, but a woman scorned.
But that would be too easy, I say.
I can drop my kerchief and be your sweet little mystery. Your time-released morphine, your addiction to methadone.
Outside, through raging tempest and forest fires, a woman’s body is aplenty.
These days with gender reassignment, anatomy can be modified. A Fuji apple soaked in grape flavor becomes a Grāpple. Like a Kardashian, you can be tightened, sculptured, and stitched to perfection. But facades, my love, won’t last forever.
A feminine presence — man’s true desire — lingers. She permeates and playfully allures, never giving too much away, never screaming to be looked at.
She waltzes not walks. In subtlety she glides. Never a need to run for attention.
A true woman is an enigma, a secret code never to be deciphered. Her truth sleeps between her bosom in her sarcophagus where an ankh rests upon her chest close to her heart for an eternal spell.
So much is said about being a woman these days.
Yet the louder she shouts to be noticed the less she becomes. All that definition and identification, she is reduced to a caterwaul.
You see, a woman who knows her worth moves in mystery, in riddles. Like a sleeping crocodile lurking in the bayou, her strength isn’t in the way she speaks, but in the way she decides.
Her decision to love, Her decision to discern and to nurture, Her decision to be.
It is far too easy for a woman to unstrip and show her physical attributes.
But a true woman, of sensual sound and mind, is a powerful feminine energy.
That is She, as a real beauty, of heart and soul. She will never see a need to reveal her all to the entire world because she knows well enough the world may be her theater, but her oyster is only relegated to the ones she loves — And deservingly so.
I could be a slut, I could be a whore, My painted talons could claw into your flesh and make you ask for more.
But I’d rather be the body that was never found. I’d rather be the ache in your heart roaming in your forbidden land, like for a lover who already has a lover. I’d rather be the unseen butterflies in your stomach. I’d rather be the reason you stalk me on your social media time and time again, the reason you log in and out and in again, the reason you can never delete your regretful account.
I’d rather be the specter that pulls your chains and haunts your hallowed grounds.
A real woman is never a two-minute pleasure. She is two lifetimes and more.