I made love at war sites.
At Hiroshima, at Nanjing, at Dhaka
I ran through blood and the fresh paints.
I sang through the cracks of the new buildings,
Caressed the strong, high monuments as they were raised.
One woman smirked,
“You can’t do it like that,
You have to sit on it,
and please!”
One man stared,
“You go girl,
Undo yourself,
Let not the dogmas hold you back,
Connect with your womanhood,
Free. Free. Free”.
One child pundited,
“Milk is better than honey.
Milk dribs drips and fills your mouth
Soothes your guts
Chewable nips
Eternal bliss
Mutual peace.”
I made love at war sites.
At Hiroshima, at Nanjing, at Dhaka.
I made treaties with human interests.
Each man and woman, each half-man and half-woman, each child and non-child were treated, unquestionably, the same.
I made love at war sites.
I peed afterwards—the monuments shone, the treaties printed, the condoms in male wallets damaged, the condoms in female wallets unused, the condoms in children’s imagination ballooned and ripped in continuous images as in a GIF, or GIF (we really need to decide on the pronunciation), the condoms in half-man-half-woman’s remained another standard threat—my pee flow turned into a dribble, my clit hung as useless as ever.
I made love at war sites.
And, I peed afterwards.
