shadows on this page of pain

look to miss as she looks to your pain:  
attentive, not distracted  
by the whipping; the drizzling,  
falling tears are a thrilling  
sight for the sorest eyes,  
plight for the sorest thighs,  
marked by the flick of a wrist,  
as you present your spread  
to the shiver of discipline,  
bent to the hurtful force;  
 
look to miss as she looks to your pain:  
you may not see the true gifts -  
her tumult of sly cruelties;  
her tumult of wry intensities  
are yours, though she claims your pain;  
It's hers, as are murmurs and cries,  
though none carry any weight,  
you stay what you are and will be,  
through hours and instants,  
a simple eulogy to sorrow;  
 
look to miss as she looks to your pain:  
both your lips are shining,  
your painted scream rises to fade  
when she has all the abuses parade  
bruises and inflicted stripes,  
you are the tear-streaked face,  
you are sodden cunt-soaked hole,  
waiting for the unhurried cruelty;  
Miss red lines your defeat to meet  
footsteps of fear in your wide eyes;  
 
look to miss as she looks to your pain:  
you'll find victory in the martinet,  
taunting your sex with nightly urges;  
taunting the night as breathing surges;  
and every blow will hurt so good,  
your fingers clench and clench;  
your forehead dampens as the fingers  
of your pain burn through her eyes,  
summer comes with an infinite  
swoop of sadistic swallows;  
 
look to miss as she looks to your pain:  
the hours pass, instants return,  
screams can come from the next room  
where, once dragged, you can assume  
your place in an hour of now;  
look to the ticking of our time,  
look to pricking of those positions,  
look to the love-hate that will mark
your groove and let all incisions be  
mere shadows on this page of pain.  
 
(after Octavio Páz)