Lust in Iambs
by kristophine

Write lines of epic poetry on skin,
the iambic rhythm of lust and need,
the lightning-lovely rush of heart's own beat--
what lies of this joy would you tell me then?

You're not a eunuch, sir, so don't pretend
that you haven't walked in Eve's best garden--
though the softest heart might seem to harden
at the strange demands of sex. Who would bend

to the yoke of their body's desires?
What criminal need could drive us to it?
What thing could break us to the master's rod?

A hope beyond the immediate fires--
some sweet flesh from which we might intuit
touch of the breath of the thing we call God.

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