BRUISING

I’m reading Anne Sexton’s

Sex Without Love and your body

is pooled in light, you filter

through the bedroom blinds

like angel Gabriel and I -

am breathless. For once

you stop listening, you touch

like stillness was your first form –

so small inside your mother’s uterus.

I am tied to you with chord / I choke /

you raise balled fists to my body –

Honey, I don’t bruise that easy.

I am seeking you through

clingfilm - where the tattoo

still oozes – you lick the ink

‘til your mouth turns coal black.

I am a bag of coals you heat for the fire.

When we burn, we burn together.

I’m reading Anne Sexton’s

Sex Without Love and your body

is listless / you cut pieces of me

to eat / each cut a trembling /

I hide all my bruises.