Thursday, December 21, 2006

Her Fingers Shape My Voice

Dogs bring us wounds to lick.
You eat from my fingers
to taste Your blood.

Because I am darkly shaped
like a guitar
You keep Your hands
around my neck;
when they move – I speak.

In the Opening
You shape my voice
as Your mouth.
There is a body here
but it is inward like a bud.
If I place a finger
into the unseen
moans become visible.

Love gazes back into itself.
When I push into You
You open my hips
like a door.
My hinges are all broken
since I became Your secret.
Image: Woman with a Blue Guitar.
Sam Yeates.