Writing Naked

In the early mornings of 5 a.m.
the light is barely there
behind the branches of the maple
between the darkness and everything,
and I can’t help but notice my breath
and the girl hurt that circulates in my blood
just to prove I am alive.

In this light,
in this body,
I write naked
in only my skin
and fragile bones,
imagining the earth
without you,
noting the circles of my words
and the roundness of my breasts
as they brush the edges of the page.

Here the possibilities of existence
and the attraction of belly pressed to belly,
hip locked to hip,
face daring to face
eye to exacting eye
are all that I can practice.

Heaven is the place
where lovers in a second hand life
make meaning out of flesh
and a few words
are carefully chosen
for these moments
of heated enlightenment.

Tell me your stories
of the most unusual names for God
and I will tell you the chronicle
of the land without sleeping.

Remember out loud with me
the melting of your frozen childhood
and the times you nearly died in the mud
and I will brush your lips with the danger
of my trembling fingers.

Walk with me along silent beaches
and stroke my cheek with kindness
and I will leave the pen and paper
I’ve gathered in these empty and exposed cells
like a butterfly emerging from her broken chrysalis
to trace my love for you
into the inky paths
that stretch over the canvas
of your soul.