You say I enter you
like magician 
who scratches the bottom
of an old top hat
in search of a rabbit,
or like vet arousing a cow
to ease artificial insemination,
or like beggar 
scanning the depths
of a public bin.

I say: 
rest your ankles on my shoulders,
press your hands against the floor,
keep your buttocks up,
it will hurt less.

You say:
I can't breathe,
blood is rushing to my head,
your nails are piercing my left ankle.

If you don’t shut up…
And If You Don’t Shut Up gets
inscribed in your blood stream
with letters made of
faeces, sweat and Crisco. 

You see the things you make me write…

Don’t you realise, I say,
that the scratches on your ankles 
are the imprint  of your pulse,
a cardiogram, the completion of a track
from your heart to your intestines, 
from your rectum to my fist,
from my elbow to my torso, 
from my heart to my left hand,
and from my nails to your skin?

Don’t you realise it hurts, you say.

I push. You shout.

You say I exit you
like teenager 
who’s forcefully pulling 
the lever on a pinball machine
to beat his companions
or like warrior
withdrawing a sabre
from a rusty sheath
or like torrents
of acidic sharp 

Ernesto Sarezale, 2000-2004