————-—I grant sometime that of glory the fire / Doth twyche my heart.

Dear Tom,
———When I was young, perhaps devout,
a kindly seeming priest warned me against
desire, blaze of willing sin. Starve, he said,
attraction’s fever, fill your mouth with prayer
instead. But I was hungry for a taste
of more than air, and—wanton ever since—
I hunger still, sin and sin again, sin
in setting clever snares for my restless
coveting, sin against the objects caught
therein, sin by stalking these waking nights,
sin when I whet my secret silver knife.
Dear fellow hunter, which practiced arrow
would you choose to hold off my pursuit?
Pointed barb, rough touch in the dark, a quill
quivering to yield? Come, sir—you need not
flee from me, though long I’ve been presumed game
for the chase. True, I cannot speak and look
like a saint, so I’ll keep faith between us:
while I find the cool of your riverine
gaze a seeking I would answer, I turn
from your looks (on loan, saved by Holbein’s hand)
unsinged, chaste. I cannot burn to unlace
your doublet, though doubtless fine as the flesh
concealed within—because I ache to thieve
an eyeful of your words to call my own.
I trust you will not blush, or sneer, or rate
my naked longing loathsome? We both know
need’s just a flounce to tear off a bad dress,
a placket to unfasten; but desire—
desire is pleasure’s penance made before
confession. Chastened, stripped apostate-bare,
I want desire’s lash, a lavish sentence
with time alone to learn its scorching tongue.
(Only say the words and I shall be—)
But silence delivers the cold decree:
the tower keep, no release or relief,
no prayer but the moss, green flame among stones.

 

 

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Carolyn Oliver is the author of The Alcestis Machine (Acre, forthcoming) and Inside the Storm I Want to Touch the Tremble (Utah), winner of the Agha Shahid Ali Poetry Prize. She lives in Massachusetts.

 

 

 

Photo by Ramez E. Nassif on Unsplash