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