“Although paroxysmal rhythms may be similar, no two
orgasms are identical in character, or nuance of experience.”
—Mona Johnson, PhD (The Neurophenomenology of Lust)
One comes, a murmuration—
starlings wing-to-wing, birling
sun—while another thrums the blood-
song of some alley tom, all hiss
and fur-rip and maul, yowls in throbs
with claws drawn long. Last night:
a seesaw, its lift to the tip-
top, then its fall. This morning: a blitz
of shocks across the limbic lobe, watts
in jolts through electrodes. Like snow-
flakes, they say—or genomes, or flames—
each unique, sui generis, no two
the same. When over, though, the pall
is always identical. A catacomb-
hollow where cold echoes, and angels
open carved mouths in sorrow,
or in sleep. A stillness so close
to stone, it friezes in relief.