I breathe with you,
and there is a scent of Mexico,
an aftertaste
Negra Modelo on your lips
as I suck each one into my mouth.
I trace the aztec shape
of the fading lake of bathwater
on your back-blades,
I fingertip it and make you shiver;
you quake, and shape yourself to me,
breathing Spanish love-words
into the air,
into my ear,
into nowhere-in-particular.
I had been dry,
and sharp as saguaro,
my arms aching
from being held in naked,
empty surrender.
Then you flung yourself
– a dying bird – onto my thorns
and bled with joy, breaking me,
biting me careless of your flesh,
careless of my sap running rivulets
upon the desert floor.
From nowhere your milk-skin,
its baby-musk spinning me, is making
dreamshapes,
dreamships,
dreamscapes,
dreamskips in my mind.
We are not bodies, but cones of light,
sparking, darting like sharkfins;
I dive into your eyes,
and we know love-as-death,
diosa y diablita,
mass shaping space,
our red shift, our poison,
and our eternity.
Gold trophy winner
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