The Last Sense
This
deprivation is a newly borne thing,
the slow removal of the most basic
of my possessions, a reversal
of the embryonic unfolding
graced with the power I
surrender now, touch by moment.
Sight
silked over, an elegant
industrious darkness, indigo
with silver threads, the anti-
light years, as though
the constellations alter
and rush closer, as we are.
Next
circumferential wrist
restriction, the binding permission,
passport. This will be
a new country, silent muffled
by the column of your thigh
against one ear. My nose
softly
pressed against
the curved socket of bone
under flesh, my mouth
on flesh, around, entire
to taste at last
the only sense.
~
Delilah Riordan, 2 June, 2000
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