the dictator’s honeyed tongue
deny your presence
but fresh forest flowers
accent the scent even of
your absence — pouring
pollens upon pollens
into every pore that gapes
for your breath.
what dust has life sprinkled
into your petals?
what oil has earth sprayed
into your nectar?
a, sweetest flower: revolution.
something in your hair stings
like rust. the soot black night?
or the scent yet unnamed?
or, is it the tickle of the naughty
silky strands? i don’t know. but
on that rain-soaked night – armskin
against armskin, the flash of flesh –
under your umbrella, something in your hair
stung me. and now: i crave the gasp
of hunger in your mouth i crave
the surge of longing in your breast i crave
the wave of assault in your hip i crave
the grip of death in your thighs. a, my dear
stranger: like your umbrella,
unfold me. bathe my creaking ribs
with the serenity of your inviolate oil.