Amy nude ascending


She wakes me eager of tip and tongue

all at the risk of desiring

what would drown the heartier man.

She rises

having held my hand to myth.

She rises

with flesh as perfect as the feathers that shape the swan.

She rises.  She rises

soon to tea, soon to the morning’s confessional,

soon to whistle.

She rises

to a feral light

in which no smile can dim.

She rises unabridged, she rises gilded.

She rises in the quell of yesterday.

She rises having stolen the rain;

rising as that blameless thief.

She rises.  She rises.

She moves to what will move me.

She has led me to where she goes.


Should it happen

dreams pull me again from her:

Bite at this heart beneath my naked breast



- D. Garcia-Wahl