Hot water illuminates invisible
markings on my rib bones
left by the grip of your hands.
There is a faint outline of your lips
on the pink swell of my breast
and a silver-shadowed trail as your tongue
leads you to worlds unknown.
It is the heat that raises the memory,
my arms taut behind me, gripping thighs
as if my life depends upon it; hips thrusting
forward and hair disheveled while you
elevate me in soft flickering light.
It is the heat that sews the sound of your voice
into my skin in the darkness of these nights.
We connect like tender filaments in thin glass,
joined tentatively, transferring arced energy.
We've become inventors and explorers
sailing in the ocean of uncertainty, words
you know so much about, and each
with sights set on lands and time of snow
where the imprints of our bodies
make angels in the powder and the drawback
no less impressive when glaciers fall into warm seas.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09