The Passion

The scab of night is torn like
the veil of the temple, forsaken
by the creator of all wounds
hemorrhaging desert sand.

Sometimes when
you
squeeze up so tight, arms
embracing another human form
unable to sleep
except sporadically,
even a silly snore is more
than welcomed.
Blending with the sounds
of your own deep breathing
tears now repressed so deep
they fill the lungs, never touching
the face.

Eyelids flutter,
and the scent of the tiny wisp of hair,
itchy but
still you want it there,
smells like cherries
or some such atypical thing.

So you just lie there
wound like a clock.
Feeling all the world like
a field mouse.
A tiny helpless one.
Even though you are so much larger,
arms like wrapping crane machines.
While she sleeps, resplendently,
a tiny elusive fragile sculpture
fashioned of flesh and blood
and dreams that sometimes spill
from her moist eyes.

She comes from a music box.
and is always spinning.
dancing bewildering blur..

It's been so long, forsaken
golgotha lonely.
absent the passion.

It's been so long, you think,
remembering the knife like blades of grass
sharp and curving as
Scimitars rising from the earth,
that she shook her head at and erased
not really understanding
your journey
through blood and sand.

Still, it's a whole lot better
being a fieldmouse with a rapid heartbeat
and painful memories
than a lonely bleeding martyr
left hanging there.

And a beautiful woman held close
is more like resurrection
than pretty much anything else.