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Allusive, this patch
Of skin at each temple where
Tears
Lines
Spill
From the preacher’s son
When, through time
He becomes seasoned—
Creases, eventually,
Will mark the joy he is making here
In these white cotton sheets
& rays of sun
With me
The sanctuary I attend
Is not his father’s
As I kiss across this boy’s brow,
Slow
Deliberate
Equal
In his pleasure
As it is my young love—
Crow’s feet taking hesitant steps,
My lips, fingertips, tongue
Tremble in hesitation born from youth
Above his skin
Land
Hop
Jump
Hover
Land
Fluidly,
Our bodies moving in ways we will envy
When these lines run deep
Together, we plunge ourselves
Where time can not chance to move
Slowly
& the exhilaration of parents returning
Interfering in our holiness
Merely aids our Achillean urgency
& all over my body—
His kisses, still young pure
Land
Hop
Jump
Hover
Land