Halos

From Finite (c) 2002

The hallway light slants halos into my room

illuminating his body, arched like a monochrome rainbow—

his chin—his tongue—situated like home

deep in my cunt.

One of us blurted “oh god oh”

like we meant “thank-you”

or maybe it was more like “don’t leave me lonely”.

I think I spoke, but I am never sure,

the way my memory shifts details—

the way his tongue connects the four year old

with the wise crone,

until I am so centered it is unbearable—

some part of me wanting

to push him off this crescendo

into the abyss he’ll soon leave me in.

I tug aside his shirt.

It is one of so many layers left on

to confirm that these are combat maneuvers:

stealth, capture, retreat.

 I do remember, I said, “you are beautiful”

because I wanted words to hold onto

and beauty is less transitory than love.

The halo lit a droplet of sperm oozing from his hood

down onto the quilt, like dew on a web

or like gathering rain on the car window:

That rain that wells on the neon-spiked glass,

tumbling numinous paths

to nowhere.