The holy source of my desires
laments this afternoon,
which proceeds in sluggish patches,
the air barely fan-shifted, while
our breath is drawn like inches
of sleepy sweet alarums.
But Cherubino, having known
desires of the heart flees cool
to blue through an open window,
and Susannah sings bound
to the nutshell closet hidden,
hung between love, fear.
The Count's treacherous buffoonery
is wrung note by note but you just snore,
turn your long back arched for scratch,
lamenting for the heat to cease proceeding.
These women cry hot, passionate.
Their betrayal red as sirens runs
streaming between layers of patriarchy.
They lament oppression, invalidation
is a subterfuge they navigate
like larks trilling in a forest.
They sing, search for territorial clues.
Oh treachery of men!
Holy source of my desires,
you smile while you sleep,
roll your hips toward the fan.
the dead-weighted obstacle
of your leg blocking the stretch
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