But why are you so angry?

Do you ever have one of those moments
when you catch yourself in the mirror
and think I have become the kind of woman 
I would fuck? I know I have:  I don’t know if
it’s just a dyke thing but I know I have seen flashes
of the women I've desired in my body
and my face, and seen that body and that face
reflected in the bodies I have thrilled and thrilled to

and I cannot have this conversation with you,
because I know the line your brain is quoting
from The Silence of the Lambs, and the difference
between us means we do not see that reference
as a bomb our shared good humour can disarm.

To celebrate my body as a thing
worth being attracted to
is to risk crankish diagnoses:
autogynephilia, porn fatigue;
to see yourself as fuckable
is a right you will still find contested, true:
but I will face a harder fight than you.