I wanted breath to syrup prayers on the reed, we
thatched ourselves under sound and white ceilings
humming bones black vibrato till resistance splintered.
This is devotion. There is a bible on the bookshelf.
A wooden rosary splattered over white leather, my skin
grips my clothes ferocious, derelict flesh braising
in sweat. We sit on wilting suitcases in sandstorms,
we fan ourselves with the brown envelope fat
with decades of check stubs, we splash
in the palace pool behind pharaoh’s alabaster, he
paints my breasts with india ink and I giggle.
Seven candles dribble wax some where not
here and my shoulders are cherrywood balustrade
he carves cherubs, rats pluck symphonies
on the street grates below, and his voice muscles
the writhing air. We row through treble and ground
onyx for wet facials. He feeds me saffron. Strangles
me with hot guitar strings and I purr into feathers.
This is commitment. Veins crackle with shards of sacred
promise. There is applause. There is a promise kept.