An Imitation of Gilbert’s “Threshing the Fire”
Fig leaves kissed with muddy water
cling, mocking. Naked, they
hang in slaughtered clumps.
They climb my skin, called by someone.
Prophet of my clandestine sutures.
Tides of snores and rapture. Tell them.
Two-thirds through the labyrinth of Theseus,
while hamstrung minotaurs dangle.
Take oaths by asphyxia. Breathe in spite.
He closes the book. Tales
untold. Fig leaves and ligaments
weave, weaving, leave frayed ends behind.
Love clings like burs to wool.
Must and breasts surface in the flotsam.
Jettisoned. Tie me in to ventricle paths.
To him and her and what she begs
him to do. Take a triple bypass to forget them.
Like Icarus. Proud, wet.
Love. And love again. She and he
or it and me woven haphazard. Affection melts away.
Dates as mundane as mint ice cream.
Force me to try. Genderless kisses
that will not be missed. World wide webs
of heartstrings plucked, with curiosity, like antique guitars.
Sew their eyes cruelly closed with
the cold comfort of half-dollar death tolls.
Love now lies buried as a roast pig
to be savored by sophisticate tongues.
Fig leaves and ligaments decay together,
plucked, torn, tear the fabric apart.
Palms, climbing Jacob’s ladders,
blister, splinter into porcupines, give up.
Fumble in the hellish gravity.
Sew me to the heat and light.
Scorched and soothed by selfsame
sutures. Bind me down.