I am not overt
even when good green absinthe is poured over
a sugar cube
the silver tongs holding
sweetness just.
I am not overt
will not tell you of my sinning urge to
strip you dear of clothing and chew
the very mercy from you
beneath my aching layers
where frill and fancy and the soft cotton of
longing
lie on top of one another, spilling over
in quiet crescendo.
I’m not overt
as you bend toward sunlight, creating a halo of
light beneath your breasts and I see
the coffee cream and the glory of
all that I have ever desired
drawn in chafed clamor.
With reddened mouths, we
empty our aching into indigo rivers
for to release them
and become that thing of wanting
does not possess a language sufficient.
If it did, I fear I would
spend decades
describing what it feels like
to surrender to you, feel the rounding
of dark silver, begin to etch my spine
its crescent capture, a moon within my
shuddering limbs
as we cascade over the other
swimming like night swans
oblivious to the beckon of dawn.
I fear, should it be translated
my throaty cries will be colors without
meaning, a lake of pleasure, where finding you
I sink beneath, without need of air
your fingers playing me
like a waterlogged flute
for the merfolk who surely have
no rest in their abandon.
It is my greatest secret
that you own my heart and I
supplicate myself in yours, with the
rosy thirst of a child seeking measure
I find myself in the echo of you
your fingers deep in me, striking urgent note
sonorous and defeating sound
together we listen to the rabbit stitch beat
of our hearts, pressed in uttered motion
as you enter my blood and I
absorb a little more of you
as suppliant as a beggar for your
nectar.
I fear should you ever not exist
the part of me wedded to you in between
the trees and through time would
perish like starlight.
For only you bid this girl
alive like ancient wood-maker, setting finish
the sound of us, abseiling into the other, our
wordless joy, limbs bound, skin hot to touch
this thimble of love vibrating its frequency
out to lighthouses and beyond.
Lost from you, I would be no more than
a figment of what was, tortured by
recollection, denied the warm sustaining of
your cherished arms about me.
I am not overt
yet if I were, I should
spill like a warm wax, the seal of you
pressing permanently into my epidermis
a shape of longing and need
where mouths are elongated into song
throats flung back in instrument.
You inhabit me, as I reach for you
cresting waves, growing barefoot dance
a chant in time with quickening pulse
your eyes black in half moon shade
swish of violent love, simmering damp and lush
I release to the witching smell of your
skin surrounding us like points of
flame in absolute blackness
rising up, exhausting their burn
falling down to rise again ever
defiant and pleasured
by the anonymity of their
evoking spectacle
as if I were alive
only in that moment
when you struck me
bright with sulphur
the sabotage of my sanity
given willingly for one
such devoured
moment.