I obey the sovereign state of your thighs. I allow myself
to be ruled under the cruel Emperor. No democracy,
I live and languish in your birthright, thightocracy.  
The only vote is for your thighs. The body politic
starts with it. I behave best in the monarchy
between your thighs. Who needs liberty when I have the jail
of your thighs? The sci-fi of your thighs. I build a temple.
I wear white lace and am devoted to your thighs, make
a votive. Like Crocodopolis, I mummify and deify. I am
the high thigh priestess of your body. Worshiping the ham
of you. I light candles for your thighs. Go on pilgrimages.
Recite the sacred papers. Into the night quote passages.
Study the cryptology of your thighs. Pretend
the night is young and put my head between
your thighs. Pretend the night is late and let your thighs
become my fate.  Our erotic games, names, playful exchanges
could only go so far. When you wanted to give me a taste.
You’d send me photos of your thighs. Heartbeats
between the sheets where I dive. Give me the fetish,
the crocodilian weight of your legs. The tooth resting
place called your legs. There is nourishment.
Camouflage the milk inside my head with visions of your legs.
When I am sick compel me with the broth, the medicine,
of your legs. When I am scared send me the apotropaic magic.
When I am bad sit me down and spank me on the flank. Some
kind of bread. I am fed. When I am dead, O bury me in your legs.