Her First President

Once we were a room, a space for the spilling of pagan oaths, for the pleading of primal prayers. Now that room rages upon an emptiness only my blood hears. Bondage was good for us. “You’re not my master”, she would say, “you are me taking me”. She was right, I would lose myself in her. She’s related to George Washington, at least by sexual union. A man of his time. A black girl for all times. As her descendent she shared herself with me. I imagine her now as she arranges the form and flavors of desire. Her skin a sensual braille for my shaping hands. Her limbs submissive yet grasping a binding chimera. Flesh capturing silks; blind Labial dances preface a choreography of complying violence. We struggle with the glottal language of inarticulate gods, we’re deep sea divers bound to an erotic gravity. This place is a womb for the birthing of tattooing hungers. Rooms enter rooms until dark suns open our mouths with their electric flares. Somewhere in another story, an aged Washington shoves his shriveled member into another girl – another room. A place we were pleased to burn down again, and again.