Often, he is above me, behind me,
but I can hear his breathing
distinct and beautiful like a private language.
Many have left him, this man I love.
Without a word, they go, and never return,
as if they were letters without addresses, or addresses abandoned and dark.
I found him by rising. I took each step in turn as if I were a dancer,
and all I had to do was follow. I found it in me to do this,
for the first time in my life,
and without resenting it, or hanging back.
I keep my hands clasped, but in something more binding than prayer.
This man I love, he waits, and I am the answer for his faith.
His are the hands of an artisan, and I am the vessel now full, then changed.
When I submit to him, I know his skill is for me alone,
and that he will not falter, or hesitate, or fail me with his touch.
I will lift my skirts and lower my eyes.
I will kneel.
He is difficult to know, this man I love,
and wears the hood of his trade that it might remain so.
When he lifts my hair, he trembles and sighs,
asking pardon and coin, his kiss sharp and low.
______
for my Fireblossom Friday prompt on the theme of "incongruity."
'..distinct and beautiful like a private language..'the night whispers in our ears the old tale, the old ending...yet for each of us it remains unique, like the coupling of lovers is unique to them, however universal the act. I love the way you have painted this particularly incongruous lover--*as* a lover of life, of his own opposite, how making yourself a vessel for all you are able to contain fulfills both your purpose and his. Or so I read. Really a subtle and delicate piece, Shay, and full of the very essence of poetry, which is mystery.
ReplyDeleteThe mystery of the man is wonderful, especially that second stanza and the metaphor of letters is wonderful. Reminds me of some of Tranströmer poems. Loved the prompt.
ReplyDeleteThis is moving...... we seem to be on similar wavelengths....
ReplyDeleteIf one didn't have at least a passing familiarity with your work, the poem itself wouldn't shout of incongruity. The precision and attenuation of attention to this man itself is an incongruity, and it isn't until the last stroke -- kiss or reaper's blade -- that the throat reveals the subject's lupine intents. Touche.
ReplyDeleteMy goodness this is absolutely gorgeous!!❤️ Especially love"I keep my hands clasped, but in something more binding than prayer. This man I love, he waits, and I am the answer for his faith." Beautifully executed.❤️
ReplyDeleteI read s I listened to the haunting music you linked too....wonderful combination...pardon and coin were the clinchers for me...until then the mystery was unsolved. Brilliant.
ReplyDeleteI guess even the executioner wants to be loved unconditionally.. It makes me shiver to think of that need, and how such a desire might ask too much of the one who submits... Really well-played, Shay.
ReplyDeleteYou are a true poet, my friend, through and through. This poem is magnificent, and I don't use that word very often. (I can spell it, but seldom find occasion to apply it.)
ReplyDeleteHug from here,
K
Beautifully penned. The mood is taut, suspending the reader until the release of the closing lines. Really powerful writing.
ReplyDeleteWell written!
ReplyDeleteAll the way through I kept thinking... "where is the incongruity" - and then of course the last stanza. Reading it a second time was a joy.
ReplyDelete"and that he will not falter, or hesitate, or fail me with his touch.
ReplyDeleteI will lift my skirts and lower my eyes.
I will kneel."
Marvellous, takes me back to King Henry and Anne Boleyn
Thanks for a very challenging prompt
much love...
"I keep my hands clasped, but in something more binding than prayer." How beautiful is that?
ReplyDeleteMysterious, beautiful, ominous. Gorgeous.
ReplyDelete