SUBJECT>Feverish POSTER>Laurel EMAIL> DATE>1111621436 EMAILNOTICES>no IP_ADDRESS>dhcp024-166-083-178.neo.rr.com PASSWORD>aaFRbor6/KzWk PREVIOUS> NEXT> 85361 85368 85382 85418 IMAGE> LINKNAME> LINKURL>

Feverish

The sun’s neither lemon nor honey as it burns
off the fog within and without which is neither milk
so viscously whole it coats the throat going down
just an hour ago as your body turned and tossed and burned
up under the covers as if the fever had a mind of its own
or thinned out as it is now to skim the same pale blue
of a ghost as your eyelids quiver like moths all aflutter
with love for the light they’ve finally found;
perhaps the fog isn’t burned off but merely dissolves,
swallowed by the suddenness of day’s onset as startling
and unannounced as your eyes opened when just moments ago
they were closed here in bed the sky ogling me and I blush
shy as the tulips pushing up up up like cream into coffee, stir
and it’s gone and the snow’s not flour, not sugar
not salt as it sifts down softly as my hand alighting
on your forehead like a swan coming to rest
upon a thawed pond. But want is these fingers, need
is this mouth. Forgive me for grabbing, for biting.
More is never enough, and the glass is always half-
empty no matter how much you pour and pour yourself
out. And desire is this amber ribbon unraveling, slowly undone
by gravity, dissembled like your tongue, a key that unlocks
my body, dangling from the spoon, melting into the steamy cup.
No, that’s wrong. Desire is the dough’s swelled belly yawning
beneath the towel, the promise, hot out of the oven of that solid, uncut loaf.