Rose Meditative, Salvador Dali (1958)
When he’s inside you
you feel more than his fingers:
you feel the metaphors themselves
offering themselves up,
each one vying to be the One
that takes you over the edge.
Your waters pour, the pulse in your Cunt
perfect like the pulse of the pomegranate seed.
And your Sex blooms
like a hothouse flower in his mouth
till behind the screen of sharply closed eyes
you see a green field, where a blood bay filly
flips her silky tail, her scent
filling the air. She paces wildly, yearns for an
insistent nosing, is ready to be bred.
And in your head
the Symbols cry out in wordless language…
yours is an invisible estrus:
and in your season countless images