He holds my wrists above my head
His hand moves down my body
Like a brand
Not fading with the light of spring
The casual ownership rite of a husband
But his bed?
His bed is not mine.
My pleasure is not his.
Our children do not share his darkness.
Or, maybe a little…
Their eyes see more
Their fingers longer
Their skin warmer to the touch
But no one touches them.
When you wander the fields at night
And the god surprises you
Holds your wrists high above your head
His hand pressing down length of your body
His breath hot against your throat
And he whispers, ‘yes or no’
Then you must choose to dance in his darkness -
or dance alone -