|
A Scrying Mirror
What did you see in your dreams? Did you see the wet fruit? Did you see my eyes asking, telling you to guess? The wet nectarine in your fingers held
to my open and biting mouth?
Raindrops or dew resting and trickling on the skin? Or did my eyes ask for the wet azaleas
dripping their flower waters over my bare waist and hip and thigh? You looked at me. Your eyes asked, What do you want? My eyes asked, Can’t you guess what I
want? And in your hand, the dripping
fruit. The orange red wet fruit
plucked from the tree between thumb and forefinger. And held wet to my nose and lips and mouth, you watched me
bite. Can’t you guess? Can’t you guess what I want? You looked at me. And in your hand the wet azaleas, wet tongue
oil and rose. Your eyes asking my
eyes. My eyes telling you to
guess. Rough and slow fingers
creeping back the thin sheets. And
the wet flowers trickling their cloyed waters on my waist and hip and
thigh. Eyes closing. Slow trickling. Slow closing. Cool trickle and small tearing prick of rose thorns on
shifting flesh. Eyes closing and
beads of flower waters and blood, you watched me open and close. Soft wet petal and tear of
bramble. Can’t you guess? Can’t you guess what I watch? Your skin and hair wet born from
another world into my dry bed.
Relics of this world you brought to anoint me. And you touch me not with hands and lips and body. You are silent and watchful. And from your hands, the fruit, the
flower. Rain and soil. Split stem and sap verdant trickling. Your eyes asking, What do you
want? My eyes telling, asking,
Can’t you guess? The flower or the
fruit? Can’t you guess? Can’t you guess what I want?
Can’t you guess what I want? Can’t you guess?
The flower or the fruit? My
eyes telling, asking, Can’t you guess?
Your eyes asking, What do you want? Split stem and sap verdant trickling. Rain and soil. And from your hands, the fruit, the
flower. You are silent and
watchful. And you touch me not
with hands and lips and body.
Relics of this world you brought to anoint me. Your skin and hair wet born from another world into my dry
bed. Can’t you guess what I watch? Can’t you guess? Soft wet petal and tear of
bramble. Eyes closing and beads of
flower waters and blood, you watched me open and close. Cool trickle and small tearing prick of
rose thorns on shifting flesh.
Slow closing. Slow
trickling. Eyes closing. And the
wet flowers trickling their cloyed waters on my waist and hip and thigh. Rough and slow fingers creeping
back the thin sheets. My eyes
telling you to guess. Your eyes
asking my eyes. And in your hand
the wet azaleas, wet tongue oil and rose.
You looked at me. Can’t you
guess what I want? Can’t you
guess? And held wet to my nose and
lips and mouth, you watched me bite.
The orange red wet fruit plucked from the tree between thumb and
forefinger. And in your hand, the
dripping fruit. My eyes asked,
Can’t you guess what I want? Your
eyes asked, What do you want? You
looked at me. Or did my eyes ask
for the wet azaleas dripping their flower waters over my bare waist and hip and
thigh? Raindrops or dew resting
and trickling on the skin? The wet
nectarine in your fingers held to my open and biting mouth? Did you see my eyes asking, telling you
to guess? Did you see the wet
fruit? What did you see in your
dreams?
|