THE WEIGHT OF MAN

Brief times together
in each season
over one year's time,
your hands on my waist,
back, breasts -- electric.
I can't explain it to anyone,
let alone us.
We're too different
(too alike?)
   for such current. 

You were a new country
and I, a haggard traveler.
I didn't know it wasn't
all about man's pleasure,
somehow never understood
I want to make love to you.

The territory of you was, is,
breathtaking, breath-giving.
You made of me
a porcelain vase,
a rare artifact,
but I felt new.

I thought I had known
complete emptiness.
But that was before
life by fire, death by fire.
We were voracious,
omnivorous, insatiable,
wrapping one another
like flames, shrouds, killers. 

Your large hands cupped me
everywhere, and I was safe.
My small hands drew you
from still life to life.
You hammered beauty into me,
and I danced to your percussion.

After our breath skimmed the
ceilings and stars,
I said, rest your whole weight on me --
I like the weight of a man.
Each time you did, I smothered.
And we laughed.
See? you chided.

The seasons changed from pink to yellow
to crisp to white.
I never said I loved you.
I could, can only say,
I am your vase, and you the artisan
who forged me --
that we filled one another,
sending our losses soaring.

I can say that
some things change,
some stay the same.
The need we had was terrific,
terrible, trenchant.
Or, I should say, ineffable,
such that these words
need never have been written.

Copyright Julie K. Shavin 2009