Chronic Dysthymia

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Love in the Mesolithic

1. the gatherer, hunted

Waking, I rise from my earthen bed,
my dayskin sloughing the dirt of sleep.

Grass blades tremble, and I sense you in the hedgerows,
returning from your circling, and I have you
in mind, in the hard light of out-there's bareness,
your blunt teeth glinting, your bowstring drawn.

My areolae are taut clouds, swollen
with a promise of rain or arrows,
my downy navel bared, anticipating
the homecoming of our hunger.

 

2. the hunter, gathered

As you take me in hand, the melon fire
of your touch sublimes my mind to black sugar.
Your bespittled palm slides up the underside,
swelling me like fruit after fallen rain.

I am ready to fall, bursting to be
gathered in by you - sweetening your hunger,
becoming your belly, enriching your skin -
diffused throughout your blood

until you, yourself, are fallen fruit
nourishing the body of the earth.