I wait by the bush
burning every color
with red, with sin.
I take off my clothes,
parade, taking deep breaths,
inhaling fire into my lungs
until they rise and smoke,
smoke words, smoke you.
I stand naked
in the sun, my face to the flames.
I let my skin bake
until it is hot, red hot,
and when you circle me,
I peel. Expose bones.
You clothe me with blazing
red eyes, eat me like poems,
bake me into stone, the stone
you think on,
the stone you rub, rub until fire burns your fingers--
the stone you rub to death.
Alone, here, on the slate floor,
with fireplace heat scorching my breaths,
I hold to my heart,
stems of holly,
pull leaves off,
one at a time,
playing he loves me not--
pitching questions into flames,
watching words burn,
watching passion burn,
late into the night,
watching until the fire dies,
until coals turn to pillows of soot,
until dawn covers me like a stiff sheet,
and the last berries vanish
from my cold hand.
You come to me in the night, every night,
circling like a hurricane and I am in your eye.
Circling, circling fast and wild, fast and wild.
I cannot move, cannot escape desires,
desires that burn, cry for your rushing waters:
Your fingers are lightening in my hair, thunder on my lips.
Your mouth, moist, clean as saltwater washing my breast,
swelling my nipples; your thighs pushing harder
than winds surrounding my hips, pulling my body
from tranquillity, pulling my cells, my senses into your
raging forces. My skin leaps into your winds, winds
ripping through me until I am swallowed
in ecstasy.
The chaste field
blazed gold
in moonlight
while we ran,
laughing,
hands locked,
folding fine stalks
until they cracked
like crisp sheets
against our thighs
