By Martins Deep
I quench— with a breath mad with longing—
the candle on the nightstand
and your hands— they make flute of this part of the body
you used to skip blank in your biology workbook.
In a second split in two, the strokes of my clueless arms
unties the Gordian knot of your wrapper
making sluices of your nostrils.
Thirstily, I draw you closer to me
sniffing the ripeness of a vineyard in your hair
and shape my hands into a chalice after your curves.
Your breath, combing the hair on my chest: “Take, eat: this is my body”
Your hands, lowering my head below your navel: ”This, do in remembrance of me”
Your gasps in my ears: “Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me”
I make plectrum of my tongue to strum the violin placed in the deep
of your marshy landscape, and hear echoes [of Gregorian chants
hummed backwards] issue forth from the fissured temple in your throat.
We’ll wake up— my love— two bodies spread into parchments
with a sacrament written with invisible ink by the tip of our tongues.