Intercourse

I am not a hole,
   but in this moment
I become it.
   When the act is finished
and the plug is gone
   I am no longer whole.
 
Desire covers the futility
   of the thrusting.
If for a moment I regain consciousness
   I think “how ridiculous,”
lose all suspension of disbelief
   and see sex as a child again:
A strange act, pointless, repetitive.

First published in Residual Heat under my pseudonym Aga Black.