Burnt Offering

Burnt Offering

You tear meat from bone with carmine lips,

Pour the thick red wine down your pulsing throat

(a misdirected drop follows my gaze between your breasts),

offer me the rest as the fire bellows.

Your gown, your hair,

your limpid eyes:

lust lies like a hungry tiger between us.

Its tail flicks

and an argent candlestick clatters across the room.

A crow breaks from cover -- your chandelier is reeling;

the swinging crystals, sky diamonds, burn to ashes as

you glare at me,

worlds burning in your eyes,

the falling dust mantles the banquet like a shroud.

You wipe your mouth -- leaving a grey smear of dust,

and open another bottle.

The crow pecks umber wax from the spattered drapes.

Your lashes flutter,

the torches explode in their sockets,

the crow is a scatter of ivory.

You lean forward and the linen smokes

where your breasts touch it.

"Come here." And you smile.

I shove my chair back;

It falls, I rise;

the tiger yawns and the table creaks.

I lurch to the window.

I don't remember this room, those stars, even my name.

I ball a fist but the glass melts before me.

On the balcony a carpet ripples and I step aboard.

I despise myself for leaving but your

smile is like the tiger,

you rend my heart with the surety

that one of us will feed tonight.

Still, I could forget that too,

but, Oh God, it might be me.