Blood Finger
BY JOHN PAUL DAVIS
I say this place where I rest my cheek
on her back between her shoulder blades
is as splendid as any city
even the one beating streetlight
in the balmy evening
just outside her window. This winter
is unseasonably warm. We ripple
together, total flesh, gone back
to our mammal selves, looking
for new light as the sun sets
early as it will all year. It is tempting
to mistake chemistry for destiny, how easily
we together make this togetherness,
how I know without knowing
she wants my fingers curled
inside her, then my beard to baptize
with that iron ink the moon
calls forth from her every time Earth's shadow
silks across its face. And how I gulp. Morning
will come & I'll neglect to bathe,
wanting her animal smell
on me all day so I'll discover,
on the train, the purple cursive
piebald along my ring finger,
what her body, in its delight, wrote
on me in the same language
of vowels she sang all night into the pillow
while the stars burned away.
I say this place where I rest my cheek
on her back between her shoulder blades
is as splendid as any city
even the one beating streetlight
in the balmy evening
just outside her window. This winter
is unseasonably warm. We ripple
together, total flesh, gone back
to our mammal selves, looking
for new light as the sun sets
early as it will all year. It is tempting
to mistake chemistry for destiny, how easily
we together make this togetherness,
how I know without knowing
she wants my fingers curled
inside her, then my beard to baptize
with that iron ink the moon
calls forth from her every time Earth's shadow
silks across its face. And how I gulp. Morning
will come & I'll neglect to bathe,
wanting her animal smell
on me all day so I'll discover,
on the train, the purple cursive
piebald along my ring finger,
what her body, in its delight, wrote
on me in the same language
of vowels she sang all night into the pillow
while the stars burned away.
John Paul Davis writes poems and, when he is fortunate, other people enjoy them.