Freud loved to write of caves and hidden bays,
hollow drops and channels for green
and spiky dreams, tucked mean
inside the brains of men he never knew.
Freud loved to write of mind-
sick men, their mind-
sick needs, said he,
their lurch and lust to possess and press,
and very best to take some female flesh,
to lie within the one that warmed and
knit and brought them writhing into life.
Of women’s minds, the scholar offered
only this: that we are forged from all that we
have missed, cursing our softest
places, our hot and wet,
wanting that which we can take but
never get, our lack, our flat,
our fervent drive for sword and tower tall,
our hope to fuck that Freud
loved writing best of all.
To Marvelous Light 