Anything but indifferently she wraps her jangly spider legs around me. In the bi-fluvial run-off, phosphorous filaments, her legs, photosynthetic skin radiating green veils, the aurora borealis cascades in thin lucent skirts. I unwrap the beaded scarf that binds her belly, leaving marks, a shade redder than the lips of her smirking, proud mouth. I unbutton, slip down, slide off and am clean. I look at her wishing for an entity, not identity. I hope for peace not a piece of mind, for my own sake and hers. Looking at her I realize that she is complete throughout. She dreams with her nerves, with her vessels, pumps, and valves. She confesses with her tendons, joints, and marrow. She fills the world with her hair. Her jugular is going for mine, practically sobbing. I know there is more to it than this because I have done it too. Wherever I lay: de facto altar. There are sons in my scrotum, knives under the mattress and God is summoned in that last, lost moment of lost control. All senses funneling into one I vanish and reappear. In that instant of absence sacrifices have been made. This give-take is too much and so much less than the obvious fantasies of flesh. I want to take it outside with the other animals, into forests and swamps, to sink into the mud: Dust, not stars. Solid, not song. I want the real music, the sighs, slaps and suction, gravelly grunts, grinding teeth, toothy grips, quick inhalations punctuating every tremble, trying to keep it together, desperate for the falling to pieces, that mess of life we imagine is more like death. What a myth. She contorts, rigid then loose, ejecting an unnatural injured voice, unwilled and directed at no one nowhere. This is not how people die. Still, I can’t help feeling my own projected end when she twines her legs with mine, tugging me in like a drug, a trap, a real Venus proffering hemlock and stolen golden apples. No, no, it’s all wrong. I can’t get it out of my head except when she stops, wide eyes pleading for just as she gets. There is no sacrifice, not if I am right about how wrong it is. Not if that is the very reason, the only reason, I am here. I am dangerously close to that decision to sustain that last lost moment of lost control into the rest of my days, to drag it kicking and screaming, swearing oaths and promises that would smother me, to make it last, to turn into her. To make it, in a word, right. What is the point if my selfless end has a selfish beginning? Can’t I just stop? End it at the beginning, right now? I can no longer ask these questions. She is irresistible even while telling me that it is hopeless. Could be’s are good enough. I’d rather not think about it and once wrapped in luminous sheets, I don’t. Years of pressure, undisciplined release, a multitude of little mistakes… why not one big one? Her skin is already under my own, her voice already slinking around in my brain, leading me around that misty labyrinth, her comfortable, imperfect flesh stripping me down to the bones, so powerful, so real, scaring me out of my wits. I am tossing in bed like a brick tossed at a glass house. I throw and throw and every stone is swallowed up like nothing. I rest uneasy at the bottom of a mirroring pool, looking up at no one.