The
Bath
for d.b.
He was a child in my house.
I led him to the bath and lowered
his thin body into a swirl of suds.
He winced at my caress.
His calloused soles became petals
when I placed him in the bath.
His quiet gaze turned inward
when I fondled his soft chest.
A white lotus flower. A dark lotus stem.
I cleansed him with my hands.
He closed his eyes and yielded.
"They beat me," he said.
"Stand up," I said, "I want to wash your legs."
I passed my hands over limb and limb,
marveling at the perfect skin,
and healed the burning scars within.
copyright © 1987 Gloria G. Brame.
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Reckless Bruises
Your flesh craves
to contain me.
You caress the bruises of last night's tryst,
my cruel and loving fingerprints.
Each blue star my sign, each blue kiss
an antidote to loneliness.
The traces of our pleasures darken
at first light. All day, these epigrams
on whip and bite will pulse invisibly
beneath your clothes, quiet tributes
to our erotic dialogues.
The ancient gods played like this,
unashamed of their obsessions,
heroic in their capacity for pain,
primal in their delights,
bruising what they loved for pleasure.
Tonight we'll lose ourselves again
in high-intensity games.
Rapacious slave and charming bitch,
I'll bend you to my will and you'll submit.
You'll beg for the marks of my ownership.
copyright © 1987 Gloria G. Brame.
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