If I were to scorn you,
it would be blasphemy;
the spirit into which I’ve been born again
allows nothing but surrender
to your holy lips,
your fertile, divine tongue.
A thousand thousand times
I dreamt of your wet mouth on mine.
You sang against my lips,
and I cried aloud and pulled you down,
wrapped my legs about your neck
and let you lift me up.
You held me — a ripe, forbidden fruit —
and devoured me whole.
If I were to turn from you,
from where your songs echoed
against the crescent of my desire,
I would be guilty of something
for which there is no forgiveness,
from which only blood might wash my sins,
and if that,
then only if I were to bleed enough
to sleep forever after.
These vows of mine
declare you as constant,
though we two are changeable
into one or three or more,
as alike and different
as each ocean wave
that caresses the naked shore.
