it's hard not to want to write
even though all i can tell you
is that grasping climb, thighs
pixellating with heat,
fingers in an animal clutch,
toes in a feral, fetal curl,
and something in the belly whirring
with strange and marvelous appetite -
even in the vortex of such a whirlpool,
I am convinced there is a poem, waiting.
but how to tell you about
the just after?
what i didn't know
was that God could be in the room, too
moments after coming,
how God could sidle next to the bed
in the barest hint of a whisper,
how a tiny, precious tendril of God
could snake its way
under my whole body and, somehow,
like a feather stroke
like a pocket of air
like a caesura of freedom,
lift all the yearning out.