His way is not the gentle swiping of
a strand of hair behind the ear,
prelude to a kiss like melted chocolate
and intricate macrame craftsmanship labeled Intimacy.
Those are my trademarks.
He has this domineering silence about him,
whips the room into a storm at sea and then
he calls on the calm
so the sun can set warm on the water of my navel.
There, he makes his voice so tender
and so honest
as he speaks directly into my womb the secret desires
I didn’t know were mine.
He drinks in my body in a sanctimonious way,
like I’m made of something rare and holy,
and in the afterglow, I am an Idol
on a pedestal surrounded by candles lit
and glistening geodes, fragrant ripe roses.
Then, he desecrates my pillars
and consumes my offerings like Kali
feasting on my earthly weakness.
He leaves me there in the dark
for three days and three nights
to cut my flesh and rip my threads.
Three days and three nights
to know his absence,
and when he returns, he faces away from me.
Then I lay bowls of anointed oil at his feet,
fill his palms with gold coins.
I light six candles in a semicircle around him
and I dance by their light until my bones vibrate beneath the skin.
He is silent and unmoved, he is a stone.
I am painted black.
Then, the sweet scent of roses.