Oil of Bergamot

Did you wake up next to me again this morning?
In an empty bed with a side grown cold
     but with the palm of one hand curled like it was cupping my breast,

     the fingers of the other splayed out over my hip, gone already?
Could you still taste me, acid, bitter, and sweet at once,
     in the corners of your mouth or

     under the eaves of your cock,
          which woke up before the rest of you, the watchman silent on the walls
          as I slipped away in a cloud of steam?
I must have been there, then, with all that proof and wanting.
It is the most likely thing: Occam's Razor skimming curls of spring-colored peels that drop to the floor
not in the shape of my initials but
     the squint of my cervix,
showing how we were made by knowing hands.
The same that dimpled the skin of Citrus bergamia,
Made us to fit the empty spaces in each other's spirals.

Did you seek me out again today?
Why do you run yourself so ragged,
     sheathed in sweat and panting like a horse
     after the third race of the night?
I left a trail from underneath my hair,
     between the white straits of my shoulder blades
      down the spice roads of my spine.
All you had to do was kneel and convince every woman who passed by
     to let you root between her cheeks until you found me,

          Anointed like the prophets of old who meandered through the desert,
          commanding bears to tear apart boys
          for mocking their bald heads.
Why do you run yourself so ragged when I always tell you precisely where I'll be?
In the tea house of woven branches,
     heavy with sweet lemons,
     citron dangling like amber earrings,
covered in blossoms white as the snow on the ground
because you and I both bloom best in our winters.

I don't remember what's outside the green walls, through the clouds of steam, but it is either:
     A postcard of an English estate, with roses in rows and horses ready for the race; or

     A caravan way station city with walls shining white and a gate like a steel parabola; or

     A Mandarin warehouse, thick with the smell of drying leaves and ink on labels of origin                     handsomely bordered in lies.
One of those. Does it matter?

Did you rest beside me again tonight?

I'm so glad you're home at last, even if you smell like cheap cigarettes and spilled vodka.
     It can't stand against a strong, steaming cup and Turkish marmalade.
I can't remember what's outside these white sheets except the mattress,
     Stuffed with shriveled leaves torn from their paper packets.
          As many teabags as you and I have stories to tell,
          As many as will fit in Odysseus' first night home,
               when Penelope washed the blood of her suitors off the only skin she wanted
               And asked "Where have you been?" by pouring a cup of tea.

I can't make the night any longer,
But I can write a poem for a man I love
     Who drinks Earl Grey.

I can't do anything about the bitterness of life, because it's wrapped into the spiral
     that dimples the skin of Citrus bergamia,
     Tucked under the eaves of your cock even before it scrapes into me,
     Pooling at the corners of your mouth.
But those bitter edges, they're just the skin.
Crack it open and let it mist against your lips,
     Coat the inside of your nose,
     While you dig into the flesh with both thumbs
     and scoop sweet acid into your mouth with a hooking tongue.
And we both bloom best in our winters.
And we both are anointed like the prophets of old.