The sesame oil
you brought for me
to knead into your skin
makes it glisten
in the firelight.
I want to be chaste
and slow with you
now, touching circles
from your pulse points,
calling the blood up
to your surface,
using my hands to bring
ease to your body
hidden here
and there by
a vermilion edge
of quilt.
The sound you make
is new to me and I
think of the sound high
tide makes at the moment
it yields to the ebb
current, a sighing of sea
water under the tug
of a quarter moon.
I do not break
touch,
pouring more oil
into the cup
of my palm, knuckles
still to your spine
and realise
it is you
who touches me,
who annoints the dry
places, touching somewhere
nothing
has touched before.