Free verse in her voice

Purgatory Rising

with the meter of your caress

Photo by Vadim Sadovski on Unsplash

My body wakes. An aching dove
ascends in yawning grasps,
steadied in forward motion
by the horizon enfolding you,
where the scripted moon can’t torture me
with the meter of your caress.

Until the dawn encroaches,
I can only endure (tease) the darkness
until I have become the dew.

Softest, savory, morning dew…

wet with vernacular and the weight of the air.
I want to succumb to a nature
that would impale me upon blades of you
until I rush sweet condensation
from tip to base embedded in earth
combing the perimeter of your seed
for the dormant agapanthus
that yearns to blossom from this darkness
intent to thrive on the fourteenth pang of morning.

For more poetry by Dionne Charlet, click on the link below.
Thank you for reading!

Cannibalizing the Kiss