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."