Lover

The occultist's hidden mole kept like a secret name,

curated like a private tattoo. I strive to be bound by ring,

to submit to invisible symbolism, and be held by her magic.

How many fishermen have sung of her broad shoulders

and how many will of her boyfriend-style denims?

If I have started thriving, it has been in hope

of seeing her another day, and feel the misty touch.

My tongue had already turned to stone

before meeting (now a memory) her body

and impassible I have felt the strive

-the words- of movement towards her being.

Perhaps no muse, and I, perhaps no Sappho,

but even the light swaddling her bones and craft

is no less than a god.