Lover’s Synecdoche

To sing your bones is

to release you, long 

before I have even 

kept a single bead

of sweat.

Memory is a 

wishbone snapping,

two clavicles 

engulfing the wilderness

sewn between these

blankets.

I forget the gristle

of guilt. I am nakedness

of want.

I am virgin’s rapture.

I am

an account of

deep exploration -

drawn string of Cupid’s bow,

suckle on the fruit of a rounded lip,

skim an incisor, film of spit,

the ghost of soap haunting

slope of a neck.  

How I have held you:

wrists crossed,

the nooks under your armpits,

pelvis upon lumbar.

The body of fear, I feel his rib

cage, the uninvited partner. 

We,

victims of solitude,

on a quest to wholeness.

We cause each other

to glisten.