by D. Rymer
(02/18/09)

Egypt

How thirsty I am to know about the dust
of his boyhood in Tanta, about the slaves
his great-grandfather kept and his wives,
about the rumors of ghosts
in the mansion. Even in his gentle laughter
I hear Egypt, and I know it calls him,
collect to Houston. I wish that I could throw
on its mantle, and become Egypt for him.
Upon my chest would grow the great
gold domes for his worship. My hands
would bloom with October cotton to fall
softly down his back and between
my closed legs the Nile would whisper
beckoning him to come, to bend, to drink.

Because it Wasn't Enough

Next time I want you on the bare mattress,
the sheets torn off and wound
'round your shoulders like garlands.

Next time your blood will carry
pheromone corsages -- salted cockscomb
and night blooming jasmine so that
my mattress will remember your scent.

Next time I will take you inside
after you have closed the door
behind you. Next time I will be brave
and lick the sweat from your neck after.

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