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Rebecca Cook

What You Want

Let's say I'm omnipotent--
not like god,
or your mother,
but like a dream
that convinces you that you're falling.
Or flying,
or being lifted up by a lover
with no face,
with hands of surgical precision
who touches you there,
and under there,
the way you want to be touched
though you did not know it.

Let's pretend I'm a virgin
and you're the worldís greatest lover and
you reach into me with your elegant
spoon and scoop out pearl after pearl,
perfect against your teeth,
gleaming against your throat that
opens to receive
the most mysterious secret shapes of things
that fit over and into your empty spaces
and satisfy those silent yearnings youíve
never admitted until now.

But more.

Letís open the deeper window.
Iíll slid my hand over to where you are
and unzip your leftover innocence.
The swollen tip of everything just before
it bursts and tumbles out those thoughts covered
with your face, with that look you get,
the one that turns you inward.
But Iím here now and itís all open.
Iím touching every inch of everything that you are,
that youíve ever been--
everything youíve never said you wanted
but itís coming into you now and
from everywhere I hear your "yes."
Every voice answers you back
and all at once
every eye sees you.

©2003 by Rebecca Cook

Rebecca Cook writes poetry and prose, and has published her work on the Web and in print journals and magazines. Current work can be found online at The Adirondack Review, and is forthcoming in print at The Comstock Review, The Baltimore Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, and Northwest Review. Her essay, "Soaping the Stream," was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2002. See more of her work at her Web site.

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