There are landscapes where we wander,
the consumed,
in gloom pierced
by sudden light
we stand,
transfixed.

This is the place
of ice and wind
and quick, slushy thaws.
Magma rolls in heaving
waves - a sea below our feet.

Ravens are the only birds,
the only beast,
Desire.
It lives here.
Grows fat
on scraps of flesh;
the only suckled
toothy child.

I don't care
that my breasts
yield blood.
That tears
become monsoon.
I walk the ground
that is ever new
under a boiling sky.

Why?
Your gaze,
your grin,
the brush of skin:
a fix,
a rush,
- enough - enough - enough.

Poetry

© 1998 Leslie Laurence