Untitled II (Dreams of Darkness and Light)

A deep, gentle breath

as I warm up slowly,

a little uneven at first, searching

for the rhythm.

It feels awkward at first; I'm unsure

of his timing, and I hesitate

breath faltering.

He is unfailingly patient, waiting

until I am ready, his eyes the only sign betraying his

eagerness.

Dark and hot,

their glow quickens me, brings me to life

and I nod, my heart rising, and

lean into it,

breasts swelling with the breath.

The rhythm comes easier (like

riding a bicycle);

His breast rises with mine, encouraging

me with his eyes, his lips.

"Ah," we breathe as one,

softly exhaling

together,

and again.

Deft fingers stroking,

coaxing,

he presses more firmly, drawing

the soft notes from my open throat, riding

on the breath.

My 'ah' changes to 'oh', sweetly round

and rising to his gentle

urging.

His gaze is hot on my throat, my lips,

seeming to burn through my breast.

I tremble, rocked in a spiraling crescendo led by

the unerring touch of his hands; he knows

(he always knows)

how to bring me to him, what I need to surrender my soul

to him again

and again.

He nods, breathing with me still,

fingers seeking to encourage

my continued obedience.

My voice rises, smooth breaths

coming faster now, and my

stomach tightens, muscles giving in to the instinct

to bear down, to sustain the tension where I need it the most.

I tip my eyes to his, losing myself easily

in his drowning gaze, as

he parts his lips again and adds his voice to mine.

I cannot hold it – my voice grows rough, breaks –

pulling away with a gasp for air, I

turn my face away, ashamed – he expects perfection.

His soft whisper burns me. "No," almost growling: "Do not stop

unless I say you can."

Unthinking, I comply – breathing sweet and deep,

letting go of fear and doubt, trusting

him to lead me

unerringly

as always

to the sky.

My breath comes at his command,

voice rising, timidly at first, then

gaining strength, passion,

yearning.

His voice, low and vital, urges

me higher, breathing in counterpoint to mine, feeding

me on his own desire.

Moving beyond the wordless syllables, I give

words to a plea, calling tremulously to god, to the heavens

for release;

We ascend together, he setting the pace, and I

the willing suppliant at his heels,

echoing his ardor and his pain

(for are they not the same?)

as our voices twine deliriously into one long, rapturous cry:

Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna…

AMH

1 March 2005