Dicere quae puduit, scribere iussit amor –
A pale medieval manuscript, your skin
is touched, illuminated by these words
that flicker, feathered like the wings of birds.
I imagine your life spelled out in ancient
tongues upon your skin, a vulgar Latin,
a hieroglyphic tinged in pigments of amaranth
and rust, underneath your tunic, like a psalm.
Let me thus lift up, as from your outstretched
arms, this binding, this fabric coverlet that
hides the pages of your flesh, your fragrant
etymology, your history, your verse.
For I would pull you to me, trace out that
finery of words, transliterate your soul into
my alphabet of longing, mouth unto mouth,
until I brand you mine, mine, mine.