A six month hiatus and complicated alliterative lines derails my mind and sends me. A poet to my core, I read for sustenance and my home is the antithesis of a book desert. The other night I was disturbed in the middle of a line. Thrust upon until I recognized need. Frustration squared.  Go away. Come closer. Orgasmic. Isolationist. This is me now.  Forty and fuckable. Forty and fortified. Forty? Closer to fifty.

This is knowing. This is expression of the no longer dormant, dormouse clitoris, the forsaken nub of flesh. Empty vagina used to convulsing in on itself, welcome to the pleasuredom.

This is knowing I don’t want the snuggling or afterglow to outlast inspiration that arrives out of the blue, that needs to be written down, recorded and recreated with no notches or markings of kills.

I walk solo and when I ran, I ran solo. Huffing and gasping. Conniption bound, solo. This is me remembering running, remembering inedible meals of rice noodles and vienna sausages masquerading as spaghetti and meatballs. This is me assuaging the need, yours and mine, channeling it back into the pen while the ink still runs.

A pelvis is how paleontologists determined that the oldest bones in the world, our mysterious yet venerated ancestor, Lucy. Another factor is canine teeth and I bite into my ignorance.

The man who secrets and succors explores and secretes. He is my dreamscape and when I wake, he is there as well.  Uncategorically. He can also disperse like ether.  But not now. Now he is drawing me away from the keyboard, away from the Great Rift Valley, away from the Lower Awash, away from canine teeth and ancient pelvises into the here and now world of he and I.