An Army, with Banners
I have licked the blueprints
leaking from the crevice
between your thighs
like a bear hugging a tree on tiptoe
laps at the sweet seep
of violet honey
oozing from the knothole
to the hive hollow.
And my tongue is an orthodox hummingbird
burning your syrup
on the fly,
sipping cursive consonants,
aleph, beth, gimel, yod
from the byblos of your earlobes,
papyri buzzing with lost vowels.
My teeth closing in a nip
are devout pilgrims
pressing scribbled prayers
into the cracks of the wailing wall
of their perfect Solomon’s razed temple.
And the thrust of our lovemaking,
like the rebel Greeks
shelling the arms dump
of the defending Turks,
shakes dust
from statuary marble
in Athena’s mosque of owls
“Who is she that looketh forth
as the morning
fair as the moon,
splendid as the sun,
and terrible
as an army with banners?”
The Song of Songs 8:10
