For You, the Towering Woman That I Love
You often walked around me with the glass
Tipped, sliding down an alabaster throat,
A swish and sigh of legs under silken, lacy skirts.
Ah! How I wish I could fulfil this desire
For you, the towering woman that I love,
Who liked to call me with a naked finger.
I forget, how long it’s been, since your finger
Trailed across my collarbone of tender glass,
So delicate beneath your sharp touch of love,
Reaching like a razor for my helpless throat,
All to create in me this longing, sad desire
For some creature haunting me in empty skirts.
I remember crawling up beneath them, skirts
Swishing away in denial of my stretching finger,
Refusing the whipped and hankering desire
Of the eagerly glimmering planes of glass
I offered, mirrors afraid to look above your throat
Afraid of falling, breaking, like me, into love.
This is the thing I can’t understand, your love
For slipping away with whispering skirts.
No man is able to catch you by the throat
And claim it, clamp a cold band on your finger.
I’d have liked to, but you were chilled glass
And glass doesn’t seem to return desire.
You didn’t give me any of you; your desire
Was beyond me, was constant want of love;
My mind swallowed shards, choked on glass–
He, he chokes as she glances away, skirts
The issue, smiles sharp, and crooks a finger,
And he, caught, feels it tight around his throat.
I remember it like a pinhole in the throat
Of a horror movie, a dream that makes desire
From all the pain of breaking a prisoner’s finger
Tortured for everything he knows of love,
His only memory: hiding under Mother’s skirts,
An image that breaks under force, like glass.
I want to be the man to break your glass throat,
Yank the teasing skirts, take what you desire;
So that my love no longer answers to your finger.
