bloodtrace

 I would trace your blood

up from your feet, following

the lifeline of your veins 

my fingertips on your skin

so light, they are only vibrations,

they are the thought of touch

without being so, directly—

up the curve of your body, following

the purple river to its source

and there my hands as spirit dive

to caress your hidden heart within,

hold it gently, calming back

the wild hairs upon your soul

offering only my slow & silent peace—

up the pulse of your neck

mapping the course of this river

running up along your throat

sending icicles and a gasp

back down your spine, then gently:

with the breathlessness of ghosts:

to slip behind your eyes—

up from the shadows of your mind,

carrying with us only this moment

holding on to our impenetrable joy

which pumps through us like blood:

and this I trace, tense as a surgeon,

delicately intense, hands upon you—

in a vivid memory. But I don’t,

I can’t even face why, but now

don’t dare, don’t touch, I don’t

even begin to reach for you.

Then, you shift your weight, and

under the conference table

I cannot see your foot;

the committee talks about a case,

I laugh lightly at something you say,

and pretend I am not—this.

november 2019