Kittens in the Seraglio

In the seraglio of the Sultan,

the eunuchs keep a watch,

lest Sappho’s love should

dull the edges of our desire.

I submit because I have to,

sold to the harem as a slave,

but my longing is for

the scabbard, not the sword.

We play at cats’ cradles,

and with our dolls of rags,

and we laugh and giggle,

like little ones at play.

It is not just their manhood sacks

that the eunuchs lack,

they have not the sense to see

why we are doing that.

My eyes can meet with hers in play,

and no one questions why,

or sees what we do upon the sly,

on her couch or on mine.

That assuages what we need,

but so too does our daily play,

and she may move my limbs

As she wants, in any sweet way.

We play at being puppets,

or dolls in fine array,

and hope the scent hides

the evidence away.

For if the Padishah knew

his little minx, was kitten

to another, my days

would be at an end.

But I am her plaything,

as she is also mine,

and the toys were share together,

are not all on show as we sport.

We tip the nightly velvet,

and in the day display,

in our sportive movements,

simulacra of our play.

Do our puppets rub together,

riding each other’s thigh?

Why so we do together,

when the moonlight is not high.

Devotee of Sappho, we simulate

and lie, for men are fools,

and believe our shining eye

and groans of satisfaction.

It is only on her couch,

or perhaps even on mine,

we know the reality of love

That is fully, truly divine.

So we chatter like children,

give the eunuchs a sweet smile,

but in our play we love and lust,

and give our hearts away.