Eve

My name is an exotic flower in your mouth
I taste its strange new petals on your tongue.

‘There must be poems about this,’ you say.
‘There are,’ I say, ‘and good ones too.’

‘No, this – the moonlight on your lover’s breast –
whoever designed it got it right.’

And I am glad to be a body, warm and smooth
for light to sculpt, for hands to stroke.

I watch the grey dawn gather in your eyes
and need no other sun

as though I were a creature formed from your rib,
named only by your tongue.

And we finally allow ourselves to sleep
only for the pleasure of waking

still whole.

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