LIKE A TENDRIL CRAWLING INTO ME

LIKE A TENDRIL CRAWLING INTO ME

 

1.  DESIRE

 

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.
 

I, too, hanker for strength from the strong,
unquenchable hunger I could eagerly satisfy
when it finds its harbor and home in a place
I, and only I, can shape or rearrange or own,
or drink like a glass of cold water to cool me
down when I have no more need for loving.

2. HER ACHE

 

Warm light on the back are familiar fingers
but they will not be back as caresses again.
They can only unravel bandages of wounds
that will not heal but will not feel any pain.

I am done with them. All feelings betray us
before they become clear: they sap courage,
and quickly turn into skeletons of passion.
I want to be a woman, not a chair to catch
torn and tired bodies that need mending.

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?
This primal urge throbs in me. Feel it. Fill it.

---ALBERT B. CASUGA

Mississauga, August 28, 2014