markbousfield

DISARMS

Resetting bones on a tiger's palm
we touch the flat edge of the mirrored sabre
upon the supple serpent,
the supine answer upon milk-ed skin.

The sacred prayer of legs parted
soothes dreams put to test
down crumpled bed sheets,
the rain running ruin over mid-May,

Plying wine into the fearful scopes
of a hunter,
brought to bare
on the sacrificial sights of a babe.

The breast song tailored beneath blankets
of gestures long overdue.
A slight stirring of imagined death in your eyes,
disarms me with smiles and charms.