After Lolita

I wonder, wonder
does my body fill him with disgust
as it properly ought to do
--great white slabs of fat and flesh and blue-tinged blood;
prickly hairs and wobbling breasts and arms and thighs--
as all bodies ought to do,
the hideous, odious things they are
--and we do not look at them, and we cover them up--
but he never seeks me out,
never reaches for me,
and there is no relish in his kisses
--as if I were a sister or a cripple or a child;
as if I were something to condescend to,
a starving, dirty, ugly orphan whose skin crawls with lice
but who must not be made to feel unwanted--
but when I look at his body,
it isn't revolting
--it's not art, it's not beauty;
I find it absurd to think of it in those terms--
it's just him, and I want him,
and if he wanted me,
he would show me, so what am I to think
when he makes it perfectly, kindly clear that I'm unwanted?