“These Supples of Clean People,” Ray Succre
The sprawling hug of warmth wills me pet,
and calls to me caress hair, head and shoulder,
these supples of clean people,
articulated rollicks of waves washed up,
of water boiling, of muscle and sinew
and tissue and organs freely fit and daughtered
to embraces like milk in a cup.
The touches of them collect up a memory,
and the feel of them apprentice a certainty.
Going each way to fervor, I drive bone
through caskets and pause to meet them,
a mortised, chiseled all.
The appalled, sweetly,
the sweetkeepers, pale,
and these open doorway softnesses
that my plier-pincers long resemble.