by Amber Decker
(03/07/07)
I am walking the edge,
thighs full of blood,
walking a tightrope sixteen hours long,
a wild bitch sniffing the air,
searching for your sweat
ears waiting to be met by the jingle of keys.
In your hand, I am the lock turning over
on my belly rubbing
my shape into the floor, pressing
hips to carpet wanting
what is rough and real to enter
and dig deep
into the dream, to squeeze
under liver and lungs, to climb
aching ribs like a ladder and curl
its hot fur around the surging heart
and quiver there awhile.
I want what is primal to push me--
black eyes and swollen breasts,
the scarlet flower of my cunt--
down into the fire
where the shape of it will fill me
until it is enough and I know nothing of cold,
only a furious melting;
and I am a spring flood flowing south,
bathing the bridge of your tongue.
My rivers all come
to the cave of your mouth.
The Poet's Companion - by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux