bones of contention

bones of contention

when i piled these bones

of contention

at the foot

of your bed

i was not building

a pyre—

bones don't burn

as i do for you

fire is not

my consummation

when sinew & flesh are not

beneath my fingers

as i take you

by the wrist

for hopscotch

or Red Rover;

but our ceremony

is no game—

not for children

all flesh & bone

no, we tango

you, skirted

me, blue-jeaned

intertwined, erstwhile

we two fabricated

intoxicated as fire

as if unwatched

embers in the rising night