Light-First

A Poem

1.
I move toward her, light-first.
My skin, a mouth the sun opens.
I arrive slicked with dawn,

a jaguar between her hips, hunting the red hush.
She laughs, flint-boned.

Her hair: obsidian gloss.
My hands: gold ash.
We flame into each other,

strike and spark.
Her thigh, a heat-ladder.
My tongue, rung by rung, burning.

2.
We undress like two mirrors in eclipse.
Each garment, light released.
Each gesture, comet-spoken.

Her spine: a ladder of torchlight.
I climb it teeth-first,
mouth-lit and seeking.

The stars above us don’t blink.
They remember.

This is not love, it is light-ritual.
Bruise and balm.
Tender as torchsong.

3.
She moved through the field
and the field moved through her.

All grass became flame.
All pollen, aurora.

She touched my jaw and I blinked.
Not from fear. From flare.

Her mouth found mine.
Our teeth struck,
and out poured God.

4.
There is a light that does not touch
but thirsts.

It wraps her hips in want,
pulses through the black silk
between our mouths.

She breathes and the air becomes flesh.
I breathe and the flesh becomes prayer.
I kneel, not for worship,
for gravity.

5.
I kissed the pit of her knee,
that dark harbor of breath and bend.

There, the light changed color.

Not brighter. Not darker.
Just warmer.
Just mine.

Her hands met my back,
and there was no shadow left.

6.
Light crosses her collarbone
like a bridge made of honey.

I step onto it, barefoot,
with hunger in my hands.

She says: Don’t stop.
The light obeys.

So do I.

7.
In bed, her shoulder throws stars.
I gather them like figs,
bite and bloom.

The ceiling drips constellations.
We sip them together.
They taste like her,
like lemon and tongue.

Everything she touches shines.
Even my past.

8.
She puts her thumb to my pulse
and the room becomes litmus,

every color testing how alive I am.
My neck glows against her palm.

She says: You’re fire.
You always were.

I say: I thought I was ash.
She says: Same thing. After love.