a shower of gold

I can’t be sorry
for living. you’d like me
to be a hermit, an anchorite,
to wall myself up
in a cell and wait for death,
or deliverance via resurrection,
whichever comes first. I recall
the legend of Danaë, how Zeus
disguised as a shower of gold
came in the skylight window
of her living tomb and sent life
straight into her womb. a
likely story, that. at least
I’m better off than she was,
poor thing.

I’m really no nun
at heart, certain poems
notwithstanding. you
wouldn’t like me half
as much as you say you do
if I were. you reminded my body
how very much it likes
to be touched, and it just
doesn’t want to let me
forget again.