Water whispers in tight lipped blackness.
Your hand holds mine, and
we trip along the pockmarked trail
breathing the same icicle air
melting it with our blood.
Scars between your knuckles rustle
like feathers against my palm.
You say nothing eloquently.
I listen to your silence.
Wolves sob, hungry for sun
like my skin for your mouth. Smooth
palms linger hot upon my throat.
My flesh is manna. You swallow me.
A ghost stone moon floats overhead
in blue black river teeming with diamond fish.
Its light drapes your nakedness in iridescent silk.
Your marrow seeps inside my bones.
Your blood is wine from the grapes that grew
on the day of my birth, crushed by God’s feet
and poured into the goblet I now hold
beneath the trembling of your flesh.
Burlesque Press 