Terraced night. Floating on the bean bag with your neck held high, you
resembled a swan gliding the dark waters of a lake. I wanted to hold you in a
bone-breaking hug, but your wings looked fragile; in pain. A spirit not of this
world with secret runes on its nape; creature of mermyth — naiad, nereid,
nymph — that shifts shape, lies in wait for the wandering monk-prince.
Outside, the icy hands of wind played notes of cello and lute: “Don’t go, be
there.” My brain swam with fuzzy Piscean fins in the amber that we drank,
the gold we smoked. Desire came in waves warming the blood. Timid and
shy, I longed for your sleeping breasts, twin stray dogs with kind eyes and
nipping fangs that turn eager when palms that feed opens the door. I thought
of kissing your razor-thin lips and feared they would fade away like a healed
wound; of rubbing my nose against the blackening, warm carbon smudge of
your armpits; of swinging from your belly’s love handles — rails of a stair that
led to some secret recess in the blue of your heart; of tonguing the balsamic
folds between your thighs.
“Don’t go, be there,” sings the swan. The monk drops his robes, steps into
water. The ruthless prince draws his sword, guards the shackles that hold
him to earth.