May 15
Knuckle, lip, ankle, flesh:
If I were a man I’d be him.
Our kin of bones
Our seamless skin:
Body of my body
Flesh of my flesh.
Our bony harmony, our common tears:
A single tongue, unleashed.
His orgasm—soft and unfrozen—the sweetest, most silent orgasm I have ever known, a gentle sigh; if you breathed too loudly you’d miss it. As though everything has stopped: time, the movement of the earth, everything but the gentle throb in my dark centre. I am lost in the smell of him, the sugared oiliness of his skin, the surprising plump softness of his mouth.
Thank you, God, for the feel of my bare feet on the cold lino, for the balance of construction, the way my body of nerves and blood is held up. Thank you for the wonder of movement, for the settling of my shoulders, the swing of my arms, the bliss of animated life. Thank you for the breath of in and out, the hidden bloom of lung. Thank you for the sight of sky, of sun; for the sight of his wounded face.