I do not know why I disappoint you  -

you – the netted heart, the captor of beautiful things,

sepulchre voices, where the dagger vex orgasm mourns,

spiriting away on the holding charm of a velvet spaced word.

 

I do not know why the fever goes to her – your ghost want

to power the colour, fresh and ripe, of her, being so untouched.

I have the blues wedded in that shock, a paper thin spectator to my own

remains  - my health, bitten cruel –

 

a scrap of femininity, an apple seed, turned over on the tiled floor,

besotted with my clothes.

You give me form – I’ll give you words – the rent of them cleansed

with the purring of my bent leg, my decadent blood warming

 

the lily covers of my arm, dared over the rim of the bathtub.

I am each pool, a universe, marbled, more so than her

who only washes herself in your smiles,

and flirts with ripples, snatched.

 

I have the whole of the moon in here – I step into it

like an otter spun salmon – tossed in silver bite,

quickening the pulse, murderously.

I am all wide but never showing, unless the bubble trips

 

my hair, the pull of the ocean

and you outside my door,

the lesser part of the music – the bait

of guilt.  Let me be my own siren and you can go back to her.