Cinnamon Woman ~
gliding in on a trail of cloves,
its oil smoothed into the teak and topaz perfection of her face,
and the light fractures starlike as it dances away from her mere wisp of a mask
the barest ribbon and lace molded against her eyes as if held by spells and spiderwebs.
Her crescent moon lips curve as you inhale
dragging the drugging tastes of clove and cinnamon
filling your mouth and mind with it
wrapping it like a lovers veil
like an ancient goddess’s benediction.
while the desire enfolds and presses your neck in a gallows embrace
and digs its painted nails into your ribcage
and the night deepens around your eyelids bringing welcome waters to wash your memories away
as the air slows around you
time bending and flexing
ringing like a crystal goblet
and a burning violin pounds in your neck
surges through your fingertips and
trails sparks up your spine.
And you can almost hear the sizzle as the stars burn out
one by one
behind the curved and inviolate dome
of your eyes.
There is no mask that can shield you from this knowing
this joining of blood to blood.
And in the silence between heartbeats
there is acquiescence,
there is power
and there is no shame,
for in that ultimate moment…
the gazelle can deny the lion nothing.