poem24 Jun 2013 08:00 am

It’s Midsummer night,”
I whisper to you, already asleep;
“if we make love, I’ll conceive
a divine child.

She will babble a bard’s wisdom,
he will lullaby the darkness down.
Enter me, and enter summer’s kingdom,
let me thaw your winter heart.”

You protest by shielding
your eyes with your hands.
You don’t waken,
won’t turn to my sun.

I am no fire of bones
startling the wheat to life,
inspiring the poppies’ bloom,
no blazing brand that ignites the green.

But as I undress, a moth encircles me,
travels the briars of my hair,
batters itself against my skin
as if I were a flame.



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