Macabre

I.

While you were brewing my café au lait,
At Gregory's, last Saturday evening,
I noticed the veins on your bare forearms -
Thick, like water snakes, yet slender,
like lotus stems,  
Bluer than a morning sky -
Slithering and branching under your skin,
the color of caladium leaves.

Perhaps you stare at them every night,
or trace out their shapes when you bathe,
after a long day at work -
Aromas of coffee beans curling over your eyes,
the sounds of running water filling your house,
sloshing over your belly,
purling down your legs.
Maybe you notice them rise
at the end of irregular heartbeats,
blood gushing out of your fluttering valves,
and speak in foreign accents unknown to you;
tales from Bohemia and Czechoslovakia.

On your veins, you carry
the weight of the world,
and fragments of your mother's blood. 
So strong and masculine,
I turn manic with greed,
dismay, and anger -
and bury into my eyes
bulbs of sunlight, and thorns,
the shape of thunder,
so I may blind myself.

Liberate a libel.

In another world,
I would treat you with a kiss.
But today my tongue is a scepter of flames,
Restless, homeless, and black.