v.

Last night I wanted my lover's tongue
and she gave it to me and we spoke in tongue
and we worshipped in tongue and we writhed in tongue.
Afterward we said to each other --

but no, we said nothing, we could not speak.
Distance between us, and the life which bridges, with its
thin ineffable body, that distance -- and what carries us across --

which is only love, and made by love,

made of love, borne on currents of love,

over the sharp-edged stones of love.

(The distance, is it also love?
The fear and doubt, in the seeds of their being,
powerfully rising and seeking and clenching --
are they also love?)

--

You wanted me to fuck you, and I did.
You wanted me to rip you, rake you,
ram you full of everything you'd ever lost,
you wanted me to make it sweet, to
hold my tongue at the same time
against the pink and tender revelations of your flesh,
and I did.

As if I knew what would happen, as if I could
make it happen, as if through me it could
happen, as if the dark light of our bodies, lit
spark of your need in the night bed

could lead us where it needed us --

the body with its body needs
and body gratefulness,
flame licking up,
flame bearing down --