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Tripartite persona

Tripartite persona
of the woman
with my balls on her palm
when she is either with the sages,
rages or the ages

Sauntering with the sages; often times:
First day of school, in knots, senses all fogged up. There was this beeline to the first face that appears, later, at end of day parents find us sprawled on the grass looking up and engaged in talk. Could have been noting the shape of clouds. Same week at the local fair we end up in front of the house of horrors, trepidation darting eyes don't deter, we go in. Dark messing of terror devoid infantile virgin brains. Shrill shrieks banshee claws attempting nips to puncture us clean sheets. Shrinkage in size till all that interlocked were pinkies to tug and pull away from the dripping drool of the franken thing rattling chains. At this point we want out, seeking light on the other cherub’s cheeks. Among laughs, skittish giggles naming and taming of each others fears, knowing the knuckleheadry of keeping them locked up in singular hearts. The crisis and sagacity of small knicker stuff amid happenstance.

Riding the rages; odd times:
The gaze tells me she is seeing twin pin cushions on her palm. I sense a pin betwixt thumb and forefinger, double tipped. A bandmaster’s baton, the needle, is twirled between all the fingers till it is back again and she sticks it, piercing once. Magical how new needles keep appearing, twice, thrice, innumerable times. I must look like a porcupine. Her hand is raised and she smacks it on top. I wince, she bleeds from both hands, firstly weeps and then sobs, wracking type. Blinded as to how, or even if, the skewering was done to me. I got the Ornamental piercings and she got all the Hurts and Smacks. Gobsmacked! I have seen her leap like a beast to wage war in face of foreign threat to my diminutive and disappearing stature. How/why am I endeared to her heart, she just can’t hurt me, she hurts instead. She quips she bleeds. I never jab. Just bear witness to masochistic excellence achieved.

Driftwood for the ages; eternal times:
Fur balls jiggled juggled I talk, she listens or she croons-I coo, I don't know how but the roll itself gyroscopes our frame, our thought. All hypothesis see the light of day, hers and mine, attempted alchemy is gold wrought. In the knitting we bind the day. There is movement towards her womb. Progeny cooked, attesting eternity and agency to each other’s gene pool. Time lapsed I come upon her one day singing “Black is the color of ‘her’ true love’s hair” but it is gray on the age elongated sacs, she giggles as they tumble. Sagely woolly nature is assumed. She’s grand mothered generational straight backs.

whew, the woman has
my testes snagged
and latched.

Did I even have a say?! I did note the days.