I am a suggestion
between workings of brain, the solid ridge
of spine – a curvature
kin to breasts, hip, loins.
I tender flesh, still, in old acquaintances
who might have been
To a subtle fingertip
my nap is velvet – in some strangers
I am a lily’s stem
I glow under moons
beneath the wedge-dark, am back door to eyes –
those hogs of the bone-glint,
of the brink of sharing.
Eased aside, locks
reveal me: curtain raised on my milky
opening night – or slightly bowed,
offered to the axe.