The Red River

By his word, his river turns into red wine:
In my two hands I cup his sweetness
and slake the thirst I have never known.
His river glistens

as liquid roses, and its scent fills the air
now foolish and wildly possessed.
I too turn, into half-goat, half-woman,
my hooves clatter

down by his riverbed. Waist-deep, I drink
to sweet torpor, my eyelids half-open
to the glaring sun and he, my love,
river-spirit, wine-drunk,

he who tempts me with tenderness,
grinds shrill life as sunburst
in my limbs, oh, these thighs and these
hips, tanned

in reverence to the sun. The day
has gone, though my lips and cheeks
are still deeply stained, as the scent of love
evaporates from the air.

// 20 Jul 2022