vishuddha

[tensionrising]

I watch your artist hands move and wonder
if the painters of the past could have cast
them onto canvas with bright strokes of crimson
and daffodil blended into flesh, and shaped over
the bones of nimble fingers and broad palms.

once--
you traced those fingers along the path of
my arms, down my legs, and across the space of my chest
and I sighed out in only echoes of love and nothing more.
then even with your hand around my throat, coaxing out
the heavy groan under my heart, I held it down and kept
it in, my own hands around your determined wrists,
arresting your efforts and stunting the sound of the song.

in that space under my ribs, I feel the vibration growing
now, unnurtured and wild, swimming around and boucing from
one sinewy surface to the next. I can feel it traveling higher,
towards my throat, creeping slowly onward and upward until
it stops right in that place where your hand used to press