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 think.

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,
        my Lakshmi,
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