Rage

Rage died.

No, it didn't die,
rage doesn't die,
it coiled back growl-less, muscle-less,
like a snake slithering back down its hole
by sheer gravitational drag,
fangs sheathed, poison wasted,
a trail of peeling skin and drops of blood
decorating the walls of its passage.

We didn't dare open eyes,
afraid to discover that rage might not have been there at all
or that rage might still be alive
or that rage will not wake up again,
we preferred to rest in that final embrace
soaking back inside us the abundance of enveloping sweat,
caring not whose was which or which was whose
as salt was after all just salt
and pungent smells mixed into an unidentifiable melee
reeking of slobbering bacteria
and autumn leaves thawing their way out of frost
and exploding snowbell buds.

My chest was working its way out of heaving pain
and I wondered who was on top of whom,
my flesh sensations numb
my mind mush
and as far as I was concerned gravitation could pull any which way,
any which way your body lay
any which way your breasts were demanding my undivided attention
though my attention was divided
three ways at least.

I tried to move.
Don't!
I didn't.

A tickling sensation started converging from sides to ribs
as ants... ants on the bed?... fingertips, you silly...
started picking salt grains to crush between terrifying fangs
and feed to my nipple, my mouth, my burning eyes,
tried to move once more, meeting no comment
yet unable to
as I lay paralyzed in an embrace of lithe thighs
and one clawed hand,
the other continuing the ants' parade down to my belly,
and downwards still,
apocalyptic images of a resurgent rage mixing with that brine burning my eyes
yet unable to ask for forgiveness
or pity
or absolution.

I heard the rustle of coils uncoiling, scales bristling,
the unmistakable clucking sound of fangs unsheathing once more
with the richly flavored poison sparkling like morning dew
on an opening rose's mouth,
the rage pulled back its head
tensed its muscle
struck
bit...
oh, the exquisite beauty of dying again...

Love...
Yes, love.
Sometimes it is only exploding snowbells.
I stopped for a moment the depraved activities I was performing
and let smell take over from touch as main sense
my nose inhaling waking morning's desperate calls for attention
and your skin's relaxing tension,
there was something strangely mystical in your semi-question
in the momentary reality...
I believe you are right, love, exploding snowbells...
I admitted
and buried my face in the source of all perfumes
again.