by Gloria Viglione
In my mindís sketchbook—
I want to love you along the outline of your ribs, the curve of your
brawny shoulder, along the rise of your thigh, the pitch of
your chest when your heart is pounding.
I want to meet you along the velvet rub of your skin against mine,
deeper still, where your soul resides.
The way you love me—
is like the unraveling of pressed silk from neatly rolled skeins, the setting free
of ivory doves through the cageís open door‐like a soft breeze that envelops
yet suspends me—like the melting of chocolate over a slow and steady flame.
I could say that it is our quiet celebration of living life, wrapped in the beauty
of these physical instruments, that weaves me back, to myself, that frees us
but could I say, and dare I say, that it verges on something like prayer?
We meet in the substance of what we are,