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
