She wound her way like ivy
in-between thoughts,
curling cozily, permanently, vertically.
She is flesh, simple flesh, and I
found her skin effortlessly.
Then, closing my eyes,
through finger tips
I tasted her palms and wrists.
Have you ever chanted long and slow?
Have you knelt in silence, unceasing?
Have you fingered prayer beads, counting?
Repetition mesmerizes, enchants, enfolds…
That is what touching her skin did to me.
That is why I could not release her rosary,
evoking faith, as if I were under
the spell of some sensual grace.
That which held her pulse,
freed my own in some strange way.
I could feel it rising from a soft field,
energies fusing beyond sight,
ghosts rising into the prophetic night.
There was no hurry in this prelude of touch;
anticipation, first kiss,
eagerness postponed,
desire sparingly dispensed,
like the last puddle from a desert spring.
This night, like ivy will rise slowly,
curl cozily, perhaps permanently,
I will unwrap her name.
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