I was too young to read

You lent me the book you said I was too young to read. In which

A man had an orgasm that killed him. In which a woman ran naked

From the kitchen, across fields, to jump on a horse behind a man.

I did not understand their behaviour, but I understood the desire

To touch – like the women plunged their hands into the dough

And oil, fried their chests in the window-and-doorway sun when

They worked, pressed themselves to tables and walls, ate secretly

After dark the richest cheeses and mushrooms. So I located you.

You see, if I’d touched you, you would have moved. But nose down

In your cardigan, I was in ecstasy. I used an insolent finger on the

Blue grains left behind by your dry-erase pen. Chose a seat – mine,

That to me became your resting place in the 8 you made, and the

Bright, bodied centre of my thousand and one new delusions.

[Via http://livferg.wordpress.com]

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