I could lie against you,

mouth on forehead, limbs woven

into a knot too dense

for yearning, hearing the gossamer flurry

of your breath, the wild nearness

of your heartbeat, and it still won’t be

close enough.

I could swallow you,

feel the slurry of you

against palate

                       – and throat,

ravish you

with the rip, snarl

and grind of canine

and molar, taste the ancestral grape

that mothered you, your purpleness

swirling down my gullet,

and it would be a kind

of knowing,

but you still wouldn’t be

me enough.

I’m learning, love,

still learning

that there’s more to desire

than this tribal shudder

in the loins.

But I’m not sure

I’m ready

for it yet –