(A New Opening into His Body)
The brief scratch on his thumb is
thin and straight, as distant
as a vapor trail in the sky
of the sky. What's a trampoline
to the jet engines of his separateness?
His moist skin roars its speed as he sleeps
beside me. Swoop up, lips,
to the cut, this entrance, but
the distance between us maintains its half-life.
Ever the sheet of paper (it started all this),
the snowdrop petal, the breath of a cricket
fit between my unblinking mouth
and his fragrant thumb. Each morning
the cut dissolves further into him, further
from me. Regeneration of the body
keeps the body to itself.
Passionately patient, I wait to mingle with him
in the worm's gut. Oh, my love.
Copyright 1996, Christine Deavel
Christine Deavel is a co-owner of Open Books: A Poem Emporium, a poetry-only
book store in Seattle.