Sunday, 24 November 2019

The Other Hand


Maybe these kisses would land, better,
on the other hand,
while you show me the scars where rocks and
landscapes, have scraped
the depths of you? Have been the agony
and life-giving
of you… Softer than silk and roughly
hewn; my under-honoured soldier, and his
every day wounds, of growing,
and living,
recounted –
all these marks,
his adventure’s bounty,
and beauty,
beyond measure and doubt – let me cover
each one, with my hungry mouth, and hot gasps,
on skin;
I will exhale fire
and have it sink in, until your soul burns with passion and
grace, each map of past, I want
to trace, with my tender,
smoothing thumb,

ahead of sweet lips and caressing tongue; drawing circles
on my favourite part
of you;
the story of your march,
to me, this moment; my fortress of light;
where a quiet warrior
may spend his nights, in arms and
all ecstasies – deeper and deeper, wider than
seas – show his cards and throw defences aside.
For here, the King of Hearts,
need not always
be a knight. 

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