Letting Go

She waits on the bed, her arms out across the headboard, her wrists
Knotted in silk the color of blood.
An angel of pale wing, she, crucified for love.

Blindfolded, she becomes body and breath;
Her breast, stark and fragile as tea-warmed porcelain, rises slowly and falls again, slowly.
At her fingers' ends there is a subtle movement,
As if she were unweaving the tangled threads of days,
As if her breath might waft to me those strands of anxious hue.

She is testing her bonds, and finds in the sure kiss of the knots
That she must be the creature of my desire, that she has no choice, blessedly--
Blessedly, there is nothing for her now but silk and skin,
And the high, feminine sound of her breath in the room,
And the feel of her pulse at the wrists, the air over her breast, her womanhood
And my eyes on her.

Part your lips now, pale-winged angel,
Here is my phallus, rigid and warm for your mouth,
Here is the softness and scent of me just over your lips,
That you cannot see and must, therefore, taste.

She cradles me on her tongue. For a moment her fingers tense,
Her wrists tense under their silken bonds, her toes clutch the bedsheets
To feel this sure and stiff intercession of man, to know that I have placed myself in her
To be caressed with lips and tongue and throat.

And then the angry day-colors flutter away,
And her toes let go, her fingers curl like feathers,
Her wrists sag in their blood.
Perfectly she engulfs me, as I engulf her,
And together we fly on her outspread white wings.