Vinho

Vinho

You penetrate the jagged

maw of her doorknob

with a key returned

a full waxing moon late.

She greets you at the tiles

that meet the border

between the gentle humid

night and the cold light

bouncing off her foyer.

Her eyes grant permission,

coaxing you like timid

fog under the arch

of the doorframe.

She allows the door

to close behind her.

.

Her thin hand sprouts out

from a severe cut of black

sleeve, tendrils brushing

softly against the veins

along the top of your hand.

Your nerves blossom into cold

roadmap, thoughts running

south on the interstate from

brain to mouth. You lift a digit

to your lips to hush the whining

whisper of your blood. A flutter

of fingers rustles away, leaving

dew to set gently beside

the shoreline of your temple.

.

Into bulbs atop crystal stems

she pours the prerequisite pinot

noir to grow the requisite wit

with which you can convince

her to let you cling

to the precipice of a well

to drop a wish into.

.

Against dark brown

sheets she blossoms

like a pale anemone.

Coiled around throat;

a Lamia in the garden.

The word god turns

to ash on your tongue,

quickly replaced by

four years of lotus.

note: the periods are there simply for formatting reasons. i couldn't seem to get the stanzas to separate.