It’s the dead of a torrid night.
I am still in the throes of an evening
laced with wine and a journey into
an unchartered sea.
Satiated I am, but I am a trifle unsure.
Are you my lover?
Or are you my mother?
The time I spent at your bosom,
has led lusciously me to this quandary.
The only consolation is that I don’t
much remember my earlier stay
among similar nourishment.
Yet when I am in your embrace,
I still very much want to be a child.
Oedipus Complication.
