That Cry

That cry,
which escapes from her lips,
is real;
and it lives on,
because she can't
control the surges
that impel her hips to roll
and arch right up;

And so,
if minds can feel this
release of expectancy,
cries steal away,
like bereft gulls who take the toll
of all the tension
that would swamp the whole
Of our imagination;

This appeal
will turn the tide
if eyes stay closed,
we tell ourselves;
though mouths
open wide in a scream,
which yields
no sound;

This gives
the tortured lie
to all denial you'd propose
and sell as misadventure,
thought of in a dream;
and not the freedoms,
which come with
that cry.