Mouth




This is the heart's wish, the lone

friend of the heart,

who doesn't spread its secrets,

but the twin red beats are pushed

with dark blood. Who thought of the kiss,

this bend of flesh and the letter it writes

against the hair, or into night,

the evening's blue shoulder?

Tonight you watch as I become a myth:

diminishing the clothes against my skin,

their slow descent against the gypsy whim of body.



The reds of flesh and lip and tongue,

back of the throat, and parts of speech,

parts of the world we love in whispers

of this private, lurid, throaty prayer.

Within what wide brace of strength

comes all this scent and wonder,

all these fat demands it makes

against my body's little, starry form.



Inside I am all constellation,

a transparent toy or a lantern of curve

and blaze, a work of fiction. But isn't that

the trouble with desire? It rides into town

when it wishes, and kicks up the dirt,

makes the womenfolk scream. Darling,

the rain, the blue vivid night. My curve

of words, my spread of leg.

Get your saddle on.