Transcendence, Susan Seddon Boulet
For a finite one
who covets the infinite,
the drunkenness of
self-veneration:
i awaken in the dead of night
to two hands
scanning my star-latticed body
small palms gliding
three inches from
silver-dappled flesh
and while asking myself
just what . . .
i recognize that
i
i
am craving my touch
my hands
my fingers
grazing
grasping
seeking new edens
in which to dwell
rendering the body of my body
crimson-raw
and mottled with self-love
i
i
am loving me
feeling the flush of my impatient caress
here . . . and here
and . . . h e r e
hearing my head’s voice wonder
is it a dream?
hearing my own voice whisper
more
while the sun enters stealthily this night
this temple through a secret door
like an unexpected disciple
like an eternal light
bathing me with golden nectar
anointing with lip . . . and lash . . .
and ego . . . the eyelets of my flesh
and licking me dry with adoration.
