You may pour your wine in the dust because I will not come. My breasts are not your golden goblets, my navel is not held open by your colorful linen chords, the roiling ocean of my hips does not exist to keep your armadas afloat-- I dare you to test your seaworthiness; you would sink and drown, intoxicated by the crushing power you will never understand and have no desire to pursue. Weep and rage and flip your silver couches. I will not come. Eyes wide, you now see this feminine counterpart, this party not gifted description, as the velvet threat that it is. From whence once lounged docile hens, submissive does, now springs phantom tigresses with hungry snarls and snapping jaws, painted ruby red, which you had not thought to consider, to ponder, to fear. Come closer, let me lift this veil ever so slightly that you might dawn into knowing all your fears are founded, all your suspicions are correct. Corral your bulls, put your hairy heads so close together they knock with your rattling tremors of panic. Howl like whining hyenas from spires and ramparts: “Give us your respect! Come on, give it! Or else… Or else…” Or else you’ll take it all? Or else you’ll make an example? Or else you’ll prove your own point? Proclaim so loud and strong that the insidious, sounding peal will echo through the centuries, will twitch the bejeweled ears of my sisters, the crowns of creation, who will raise their regal heads, nod toward me in the distance and still will not come.