“Come and get me”, so you said,
“and take my body to your hermit bed”.
Those were your semi-whispered words
across the thousand loudly miles or more
of wasted latent pregnant space.
Your body in its pure and simple state
(the history view — I do not speculate)
has been the foundry source of many secret
splitting atoms smashed apart while sitting
in some underground experimental tunnel
made to test the raw destructive power
bedded in the core of hadrons and neutrinos
and the roulette wheel of boson positron’s
casino at the heart of the sun — the bloodline
which runs down crescent-shaped boulevards
accepting its fate with foolhardy grace while
Scorpio rises inadvertently clutching Saturn’s
rings and Jupiter’s moons (and I love your skin).
Notwithstanding all the words I’ve said above
I dare not utter yes to take the offer of your flesh.
For that was then [not now] & cannot come again.
So, even though our souls are overtwinely meshed
(as I for countless aeons have in vain discovered)
I can’t be with a woman who (for reasons reaching
back into her child) requires a father, not a lover.
© Alan Morrison, 2013