Succubus

He tried to spin her into his poem
but she had her own writings.
His wordwebs conjured her with glassgreen silk
that clothed her small breasts and skinny arms with transparency.
But she danced away to the rhythm of another's melody.

The palms of her hands were a taste of unpromised joy.
Her belly was a cup from which he began to realise
he would never drink.
The perfume of her vulva filled the air
and he could not breathe for it.
She bathed her flesh in the scents of an Arabia he had walked before
he knew her secret name,
but still its savour was seasalt on his lips.
He whispered it into the soft sweetness of her neck.
The desert night was black with stars.

The closer she came to him
the further away from his heart's centre she became.
He sang louder,
until his voice croaked like the dark-winged morning tugging at the sky,
thinking to wake her.
And she smiled at the spell he was weaving,
her mouth a casket of ivory grains
harvested from the grassy depths of his mouth.

She invited him into her bed.
Then shut the doors between them.
He slept then.
And she came, a taunting fantasy
lying beside him on the covers,
to populate his dream.

Morning was a caged bird singing.

01/05/08, 9.15