The Muse In Leather Panties And Whip

for BF

You hold my head forcibly
and push it into your poetry, “Eat!” you scream.
I eat in panic,

tears well up in my eyes.
You pull me away by the hair.
Half-eaten words fall out of my mouth.

You shove my head
back into your poetry again.
“Eat it, you bastard, eat it!”

I try to look up at you.
“Please, please, what’s come over you?”
I try to say it but I don’t.

The words I eat are sweet, indeed,
but you are out of control.
I wish I could escape.

After what seems like an eternity
you kick me repeatedly
and then suddenly you leave the room.

My ribs hurt, I roll over and moan, I try to think.
Perhaps, Archibald MacLeish was right---
maybe poetry should not mean.