NEW ::: POETRY Apr. 2015 | Page 58

Crushing the central point tiny tinder twigs pubic symphysis against your vulva-velvet dome Did I do this Club, club to rub out what was Did I do that thing so hateful to you the one most loved Or was it desire feeding and nesting on fire While with a pitch fork the stabs came inwardly secretly so, though forever without sin I close my mouth against the words lest they escape – Prisoners on the run We scream sanctuary not from them but from the voices huddled within 3. In my dreams it was gentler there were no bouts fists and feet heel as staves raging in paroxysms while the room dropped and spun In the quietude between night and dawn we lay The thrum of your beating, thundering warmth heart inside my skin There you would ne’er voice it nor wink in self -assured acclamation Within your breast certainty beamed and the blade was sheathed I could hear you low, unafraid though the reckless and galling sea pitched and tossed me o’er the railing heart submerging neath the cool black glass tempered pane away away from the surety of your gaze the unsteady rage In my dreams it was a gentler thing and the words themselves remembered not the sour lit craze but the solid glowing flame not the fists shooting death drones into the secret place where Venus reigns not the dusky hours of screams unanswered my innocence deflowered but the cannon writ of love, which in its beauty is silent but not extinguished