friday

He cuts me from the night of the sky,
eyes open once more,
my ivory dedicant will not sleep
and his hands feel cold beneath the flesh,
the movements subtle-
unhinge my tremors.

it takes precision and a certain calm,
when cords and vessels
[ ] are cut.
color embossoms the ebony ache
and the strings entwined begin to unravel.
as the muscle rages and dilates,
each contraction is purloined.

every prick, every unfinished incision
works against the
blankness of my chest

he works each thought aside,
my quiet exhibitionist -
grabs my murmuring pulse by the thumbs,
and in eyes worthy of genuflections-
lets go.