Jericho 
my lover harbored truth
like a fleabitten soldier
in her hands and eyes; shocked,
I stood still and felt wounds
open and shut like mouths
or moth wings within me. I shivered.
There was something about her,
her scent or the way she moved
her hand against her hip
that flitted past reason and touched
something darker, something old
and heavy and finally, finally hungry
in my brain, the drives older than the scent
of smoke or the curve of gazelle, running
the movement of hand on skin
mouth on breast
and still shocked I reached
out and touched--something--
mind, emotions, something in her
also old and hungry and we went
together sitting in the sodium light
of a modern parking lot
sharing everything, all the secrets
flowing out in a gush and I knew
that they were birth waters
worth all this waiting.
that was our story. there's more--
setting, circumstances, both tragic
and more than a smidge amusing--
but the story is this, always this:
two women, touching, whispers in a close room,
the ache as the hindbrain awakes
and demands its ancient tribute.
This, too, left marks
curled around my still-beating heart.
I treasure them.
They are my hard-won badges
medals of a war won permanently
when her voice was the dulcet siren of Jericho
and all my protections crumbled before
her truth, carried to me
from a place like very far away.
--11.17.00
There are some things that will never be yours.