"I'm about", you announce,
"as drunk as you're going to get me."
As if I had gotten you drunk.
As if the only way to proceed
was for you to be weak,
and for me to exploit your weakness.
You take me to your room.
I had loved your body for years,
its compact curves half seen, half imagined
under the drab clothing you favor.
Protective coloration,
as if you feared being noticed.
I didn't mind; I've never believed
in gilding the lily.
But now your camouflage is coming off
and breasts are spilling into my hands
like a soft warm jackpot.
I always liked the delicate line of your neck
and now I nuzzle it under the edge
of your short straight hair.
You seem frightened,
as if this could only be due to my being blind,
as if you had nothing to offer
and any moment might expose your deception.
"Do you know how beautiful you are?" I ask,
and you answer "No!" in near panic,
as if it couldn't be possible,
as if you'd be punished for acknowledging it.
So without words, I show you how beautiful you are
by drowning in your sweetness,
by drowning you in mine.
I sense that you want to be held, restrained,
as if you think: - This isn't my doing, (no),
This isn't my fault. So as we approach the terror (no)
more beautiful than beauty,
I hold you - (no), tight, tight,
hold you down - (no)
keep you from moving at all,
so that no one (no) will ever blame you
for our (no, no!) upwelling bliss.
for W.
November 18, 1999