Obedience. Training
You rest in me like a peasant on Sunday morning –
mind adrift,
white and black hands clasped together in a prayer
that neither you nor I remember
to begin.
“I love your Romanian accent,” you murmur
and right away forget about me,
slightly hunchbacked under the burden of
dozens of worlds crowded into you,
sunk
up to your elbows
in my soul
like a potter with his arms in the clay he kneads
to form
the most exquisite vessel.
(Stanzas come and go according to a personal
timetable.
Today, seven poems poured out
on my computer screen
in a staccato rhythm
echoing the chatter of the jungle.)
Your tongue timidly squeezes between my lips –
the most improbable delicacy
and most efficient obedience training.
“Kiss me,” you demand, “kiss me
in the middle of the square,
on the streetcar, on the subway,
in front of City Hall,
on top of the CN Tower, and
in Cabbagetown.”
(I’m begging
for I don’t know what.)
“Kiss me, kiss me for the world to see.”
(I’m trembling
but I don’t know why.)
“Kiss me and keep me,” you pray,
wishing
to split me in two,
shrink into my uterus,
waiting for the Resurrection.
Thanksgiving. Gift
You stare into my eyes
undecided
half seeking to reinvent yourself,
half seeking sex.
You take off my clothes
(slowly, still undecided)
and I dissolve
powerless
into water –
surrounding your body
drip by drip
seeking
to whiten your skin,
clean your scabs,
fill your emptiness.
“Blisters of History,” you whisper.
Understanding doesn’t make it
easier.
