In that moment I wonder was Freud right after all, is the female nothing, nothing but the absence of the male? Am I real or a black void of soft, organic warmth, depersonalized fecundity, animal blood, alien slime, not a person, only provisional consciousness that moves towards food and spawns my animal brood? A black earth field, bog soil, ready for seed, but not, never, no, never autonomous. A collection of parts: skin, soft, moist openings, hair, nails, bones, cartilage. Not ever a sum greater than its parts.
First published in Residual Heat under my pseudonym Aga Black.
An aubade is a poem written with the conceit that it's a spoken on the occasion of two lovers parting in the morning. The word sounds a lot like "abed" and that's how I tend to think of it. John Donne's The Sunne Rising is an excellent and famous example of an aubade.