After Song of Solomon
Desire consumes me in this, a dream:
I’m flat on my back ’neath
the tower of David.
Spring is pregnant to Winter.
The sky is a bladder, stretched
and sewn at its edge.
I search for clouds
though there is nothing in my pockets
or up my nose.
Before me you take form; cloud-like.
Unlike Cirrus, you are not a puny wisp,
nor like Stratus; pubescent tufts of fluff.
You are Cumulonimbus;
a great risen plume over Mt Zion.
My son is in your womb.
He has not yet learnt the contours of this planetary
mess nor felt the rage that is necessary to drown it.
We’ll see that he does –
You lower yourself to me.
Your gown slips from your back
like the tent curtains of Solomon.
Your hair is a hessian veil.
Your lips drip with myrrh.
Your waters break.