alabaster woman

I
cannot improvise
a poetic word
of its forms
I
cannot

is so real
so tempting
that my eyes grow
under the skin
under fingernails
silently

I am not one who kills lions
I am not Enchidu
who was killing lions
I am not

it
is as a poem
written with bloody fingers
written cry
a newborn child cry
written in every object
as foreign
as cold
no matter how distant

a painting on the retina
in my naked eyes
when I forget myself and deplore
when I am drowning in winter
arose in her soul

hey

if you want me
must play
as a salmon
in waters
where you were born to die
to swim in the spinal cord
like the mouth of a river
sweet
and
crazy
sometimes slow

to walk your language full of words
including neck ribs clavicles
to refreshed me with love

let me sleep in the palms of your hips
to breathe in me every night

always different
like a life