I am in love with your hands, your fingers,
they have brought you more pleasure than I will
ever. Swift movements in the night where blur
and swish is called for, touch and stir, until
a coast of flesh, repeated broken beat
your chants, your prayers, bombastic solitude
when no one else would have you. Your discreet
pleasure, because it always is. Prelude
of things to come – like you. Show me your hands,
let me praise what you do effortlessly.
Grasped at length stroked, stroked – liquid gasp, your breath
in twos, threes, fours. Downs. Down in your lowlands,
where no one goes, I call that mystery.
Show me how you pray. Show me your small death.
“… loveroot, silk thread, crotch and vine.”
— Walt Whitman
I’m not interested in who suffered more,
just those who mastered pain’s blood alphabet.
Trust joy. If what you long for is a door
that will lead you to love do not forget
that the door is here. What other purpose
could the orgasm have but to let me
talk to gods? At the moment of climax
when I leave behind ego and body
I call that act enlightenment – no hate,
attachment or pain – only bliss. Only
pilgrims working hard at their nightly prayers,
at blood’s loveroot. Don’t trust those who dictate
the path to wisdom. They are not holy
like you and all of your sticky fingers.
Today there is
a warm, briny
between your legs
as you float,
by the kiss
of hair a bed
near Santa Cruz,
at your clit
just like I did.
And at each silk-
your ass up,
heave your hips
out of the water,
as if I were still
to your witching
spot, as if
you were a sea witch
and all the ocean