–Alan DuganWhy feel guilty because the death of a lover causes lust?It is only an animal urge to perpetuate the species,but if I do not inhibit my imagination and dreamsI can see your skull smiling up at me from undergroundand your bones loosely arranged in the missionary position.This is not an incapacitating vision except at night,and not a will of constancy, nor an irrevocable trust,so I take on a woman with a mouth like an open wound.I would do almost anything to avoid your teeth in the dirt.She is desirable, loving, and definite, but when I feel her upI hesitate: I still feel the site of your absence. It isas large as the silence of your invitational smileor the vacancy open in the cage of your ribs. Fuck that,I say. Why be guilty for this guilt? It’s only birth control.Therefore I extend my hands tongue and prick to youthrough her as substitutions for the rest of my bodyin hopes that you’ll be born again as her daughterbefore I have to join you as your permanent husband,but I know you: you want me to come, come as I am,right now, without her, and to bring along a son.