By Matthew Bartlett
in the fresh andante of the dawn
her body is primrose.
more pleasure to feed upon
than touch this one i love so much.
my kitten is purring
as he watches us stirring
in the nocturnal down-linen of our warmth.
but it is she who sleeps,
while I am clandestine,
eyes full-wide wearing their wake.
how long had I known that Heaven was her bed
and her dreams were symphonies?
and that there are no dreams for the savages.
it is the same for the shameful dead…
I seek her breath.
I crave her arched soft corridors.
the moon is candlelight
dancing on the floor.
I think of the allegorical cave,
and how in my feared awareness,
I am afraid
to move, to take chances
as though stuck on a dust high.
I try to hide the albatross that sits on my throat
and suffocates me.
I try to hide by being still.
or perhaps it is I just don’t want to wake her,
who such a short time ago effluently slid like a serpent
from her crimson robe,
Her silken flesh revealed vibration
swimming in her bed of Heaven,
finding me there
ravenous in her stark maenad creation.
perhaps I want to dark her constant river run,
and my goddess can ride me;
call me Vishnu,
and blot out the searching sun.
Category: Featured, Poetry