Transfigured

Your fingers travel their slippery slide down,
whisper in Braille between my bookends.
They probe what little is left of my propriety
to plant their promise
between my thighs, in that crater
lit only by the firelight of magma.


Seething, we swim against the tide,
against lava flows sweeping down
over the dam of liquified desire,
molten by heat and want and need,
its eruption an incontrovertible premise
to your love and mine.


And Sisyphus rolled us, his boulder, up
the mountainside until, from dizzying heights,
lungs burning, scorched with pain,
he let us go. But, lover, every step closer,
every kiss, each embrace
seared me inside.

Our union, hidden, is yet proclaimed
from the mountaintop,
a commandment from the tablet of love.


If I could transmute the fluids we've shared,
the gifts of sweat and semen and saliva,
turn them into days we spend side by side,
turning the channel or the page together,
day after day - would we then trade our passion
for happiness ever after?