My lamb
Pale, lambent flesh of your throat
Fine toothing of bones
as I comb
The shadow of my caress like a bruising
to snow-covered skin.
Blue veins taut, laryngeal fruit swelling...
Locked in beginnings
As if some private eye were wanting
to catch me in transgression:
I watch you breathe
I watch you for an opening
And am captured
by the wet shine of your eye,
Sidelong.
My lamb,
I lower myself
To love, shame, and coquetry
I press my ear to the course
of your fragile, pulsed blood
tuck away a tender lovelock
and eye once more
The pale twitch of your jugular.
Locked in beginnings
Drunk on the dimness of selves concealed:
I am no mistress of the slaughter
No kiss of death.
My lamb,
I lower myself
and with a sleepy shiver of lips,
Bow softly to your neck.
Laura Elizabeth
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