There
is thunder in the air tonight
and
I have written all night long
to
reach you.
For
I have scaled this tower
and
am the silhouette
against
the curtains.
I
have groped my way
in
the darkness
to
find your bed.
Do
you see the blood
pouring
from my wounds?
How
the thorns scratched.
Do
you see the moonlight
shining
on my naked skin?
My
armour lost.
Do
you feel the subtle chill
as
the bedclothes lift
from
your sleeping body?
I
stand here
and
place your cold hand on me –
feel
the instinctive gripping
like
an infant’s fingers
round
an adult thumb.
Then
my thumb
parts
your lips –
the
hard-edged teeth,
the
soft tongue,
the
slow silent
sucking
of the lips;
hot,
wet.
These
calloused
bloodstained
hands
open
the book of you,
unfold
you like a map,
fingers
navigating the contours of hills,
the
courses of valleys,
to
the warmest caverns,
caressing
the petals
of
this fleshy blood red rose
gaping
open
to
the burning rain.
