I take what I want and lie about it later

All's fair; I think I'll let you go—too small 

to keep. And I don't care whether you call 

me back or not. Perhaps I've aimed too low 

(below the belt); I think I'll let you go. 

You wouldn't last a minute as my slave, 

would you? (Oh, you don't know what you have 

to lose. Besides, I know your middle name, 

computer passwords, your recurring dream 

 

or nightmare that these secrets you record, 

that seem secure behind the darkened screen, 

open to other keyboards, every word 

winks like the girl you hoped would wait unseen.) 

Love has nothing to do with it. I take 

what I want and lie about it later 

and blame you, sweetheart. Oh, I take the cake 

and let them eat it, too—and that's the matter, 

isn't it? Eat and be eaten. Who survives 

I might at last consent to keep as slave. 

Might. My sister Fates—one spins, one weaves, 

one cuts the thread. I do not grieve 

ever. What's dead is dead. Leave me alone 

and I'll get back to writing something else. 

You'll be forgotten when they read this poem: 

it's only better-than-average sex that sells. 

The Lady of the Tapestries can touch 

the horn of the animal she loves so much, 

touch anchoring the world that she holds dear 

and lets go, praying, à mon seul désir. 

Tapestries unravel. Beasts are dumb. 

I think I'll let you go. (Or let you come.) 

[Jennifer Clarvoe 'All’s Fair', from Counter-Amores]