Bedroom

Like a woman writing Arabic marginalia around all four sides of an English sonnet in red ink, kiss my skin in the dark, covering me fast and slowly like dew lifting at first light. Before the squash flower of our bed twists closed trying to hold the memory of a rapt bee, be thirsty for something in me between my voice and tongue, perhaps a moan you can translate, distilling it into the honey of your morning and a little poison for those who would intrude on our correspondence with their cement and the dull rage of routine. Create with me and then never wake me, but define some obvious part of me in ridiculous terms on behalf of the next holiday. Grind a lens for squash flower and bee, and bend over God’s idea, jealous as the grave.