(back to Bode
     Hall home)

This Is Sacred

  "Questions that have answers are dead,"
she said to me unbuttoning her cuff, nonchalant as
the last swoop of a flock gathering coherence
before it leaves the powerline as one
agglomerate entity.

  I sat and stood there grinning, my gaze
running awry, now leaping to her ear where
a freaky clique of strands had twisted
forward, wrapping themselves around the tiny
cleft between lobe and jaw and then dangling
there swaying in the inertia as though to play 
at being jewelry, to the sound of shifting
fabric as a vapor flash of half-tightened aureola
crossed the terminator and jolted my diaphragm and
gently chided my tongue that it was time for
a bath, then up to her right eye on a wave
of occipital squeezing swallow reflex marking
a face beaming with laughter, the skin of her cheek
relaxing into butterfly kisses of attention
as my pupils opened wide, wider, wide enough
to take her in
all in

all the way


two belt buckles calmly address the floor.

  She holds me at arm's length
and pouts, "Well,
aren't you going to ask me how?"

  So I kiss her 
and she kills my question too.

-skyler, 5/99