LIKE A TENDRIL
Tendril wound through my hair; small whisk of breath: I love your ambiguous arrivals. Reminder of what might leap into flame, thicken into honey, should I rub my two hands, stone and flint, together.---From “Morning Song” by Luisa A. Igloria, Via Negativa, 12-21-11
Would the tendril creeping through my hair,
crawl down my face and touch my mouth
to draw this quivering breath, a gentle whisk
of air caught in a billowing web of gossamer,
an invitingly silken grope of fingers, drawing
me, enfolding me, burning with raw desire?
Mornings are unbridled questions like these,
and will not find answers soon, until I leap
like a flame scorching your enfeebled loins
that they may dance again, quake or shiver
again and find me waiting feverishly there
where nothing moves but you amid my fire.
Dare I follow you to places you have gone,
or run to? Must you salve your wounds alone?
I ache for your return, yet I never know when.
Like the tendril sprouting quietly in unknown
directions, will you crawl into what is warm?
Fill my eager arms? Crowd our empty room?
--- Albert B. Casuga