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,
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.
Your clauses barb with blood and bliss.