Composition

She learned to see and feel

The deepest secrets lurking in

The hearts of those who came to swim

In her dark waters.

                                                                              – Tiresias, Kate Tempest

 

 

Your pen is a craft-knife,–

A surgeon’s incisor to carve, to etch

Intaglios of intimacy.

 

Flesh is a first draft:

With tongue to skin you sketch fresh sentences,

 

Caressing, creating,–

Brushstrokes soft and damp.

 

A contrapuntal clash of bodies forms

The groundwork for those figurative scores

Notated in a sweet, evasive key.

 

*

Curtains close dawn’s iris like a lid.

You black out morning’s grey eraser-eye;

Exposure bleaches inky hours to white.

 

Flesh-marks glow with nocturnal knowledge.

They burn to scream their salty genesis.

 

With paper to bandage knees, neck, chest,

That room becomes a manual printing-press:

 

Vellum to vellum, text and body kiss.

Ink dries,–

Your clauses barb with blood and bliss.