sanguine
to touch you, mara, makes me think of birds;
the way they hide their filigree of bone
and vibrate under fingers. your sweet soft
enfolds a bird’s heart, ever on the wing.
there’s something in you of that little bird
that sang and pressed its breast against a thorn
to give a scarlet rose to an idea
(red ink for someone else’s promise-pen)
i see you love to bleed. i love it, too.
but you and i, we also slake our thirst
on freely-given blood (that sacred cup
which, offered to our lips, we turn to wine
which waters fields so infinite within
that worlds can spin and form from what we grow)
this is our secret, mara. yours and mine.
that our delight, our anguish, lights the sun