I find myself bound
to you again. Five-leaved ivy vines
circle my wrists and thighs,

for I am Persephone
in reverse, abdicating
the lengthened light
while pursuing your longer shadow.

"Is this not what you wanted?"
Your voice, low and mocking
as you lead me to my new abode:
a cave, temperate-cool, awash
in silence clinging and cruel.

Time is suspended in this gloaming.
With a turn of your wrist,
you channel me through centuries
until I stumble toward your bed.

Your fingers and tongue probe
each hidden opening.
So easily, you devour me
as you would bruised and fallen fruit.

"This is what you've missed,
the darkness, the abyss."
Your words a murmur, your lips in my hair.
"It's why you close your eyes
when frightened. You retreat
behind the veil, unable to bear witness.
But you'll bear me, won't you?"

I cling to you like one in danger of drowning.
Even as your cock impales me,
you whisper, "Stay right here; don't go."

For months, I confined you
to my periphery, but rejoined,
we move with a familiar rhythm.
"I'll have you for a while," you promise,
but you never say how long.

Your hand, a possessive weight
on my breast. You smell of creek water,
though no ripple disturbs your repose.
"I'm the emptiness you've fled.
Tell me, now that we're wed:
should I be so feared?"

I long to reply, "You should, you are."
Instead, I part for you again:
a vessel aching to be filled.

You can vow only so much;
in the aftermath of our lovemaking,
I'm left abrim with endless dusk.