Scheherazade
Your chest
holds flowers and tattoos
near the skin.
Bold long feet
and ascetic hands
that were made to
cook shyly.
Eyes
that never wander
the lengths
of a woman's body
and lips
of a Botticelli
smoker saint.
Your clothes
never smelt
like any other man.
Not like lovers
or fathers
or brothers.
The last time
I folded them,
they blossomed
in my hands
as if your own threads
rubbed their scent
onto these palms.
Neither are you sex.
Nor a wild slash of the wrist.
You are a quiet sweat.
Between my breasts.
A way of silent
bedside goodbyes
each time we meet.
I always did want to answer
the question
on your calf
with my tongue,
But then I was grieving.
A mad widow takes no former lovers.
You were meant
to be hung
by those lips
on my wall to touch.
But
I never told you
how you were
an earlier lover
and will always be.
