She
was hands and claws groping, harsh
in
the neon back room, her flesh
sweating
sugared wine and cheap perfume.
Tell
me what you want, she said,
tell
me what you want, but I was too drunk
to
articulate the raging of all my dreams.
The
sourness of age trembled
in
the tracery of lines on her face.
I
listened hard to her breathing,
I
listened hard to the movement of her tongue,
but
still I couldn’t hear her story.
We coupled:
lost ourselves in folds of caustic flesh;
strained violently towards unthinking oblivion,
the blankness of orgasm,
the wet mess of
biochemistry.
She
came to me like a sacrificial lamb:
her
powdered scented flesh, an offering.
She
steered me through blurred corridors
and
took my fingers in her mouth,
promising
sweetness I had never understood,
her
eyes full of all the sorrows of the world.
I
wanted to give her a fix of joy, to bathe her
in
the cold sharp exhilaration of life, to fill her
with
more than just moist emptiness.
I
wanted to untangle the barbs,
to
loose the briars, to heal her wounds.
She was a
Christ, a Madonna, a Magdalene:
the blood of
saints stirring inside her skin.
She was a
sacrament,
a Goddess who
extinguished herself for love
and she was
sorely mocked for all her giving.
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