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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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(Site last updated 08 December, 2008)

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