With Tequila Shot
At speech, the feeling fled – I
the rind of sour words: breast,
rebel, beckon, bedecked. Crush
of ice, the wince and edge of tequila –
your mouth enraptures the moment
of clasped glasses and salted wrists.
I saw Moses on the high mount
glaring, a shattered tablet in his hand
and you with tangled hair.
Perhaps you are messiah of Absalom,
Magdelena, Delilah. Rebecca,
hair calling in the wilderness,
cry that startled Boaz awake
on the threshing floor, the thrust
of the smirking now, the call of limbs,
incantations of flesh and lullabies.
Singsong Rebecca, saltpeter and
the alcohol biting, the serpent turning.
You and I on the hardwood floor,
entranced, entwined but not yet burning.