I have called your bones mine,
and pulled your limbs about me,
so that I might (in darkness)
be taken for the beating core of you –
the same delight that lies in curling
vine-like (rapacious green) through branches
toward some finer, higher light
pulses in the throat, a growing thing
that rises and places its pleasures
in that nook of you, which is me,
so that I might (in reverence)
be taken for the vehement shine of you
© Sarah Whiteley
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