You be my post-apocalyptic Ulysses,
pulling away with me in a
twenty-first century twist,
sailing through the day
and the bleached white bones of the desert,
ground to sand then anchored
in waves of verdigris creosote.
We look out through the windows,
undertaking this venture against all odds.
Contrary to any single indication, coupled –
the console between us presenting a gulf
as wide and impassable as the dome of sky overhead,
and still I manage to bridge the space,
feet in your lap or head against the cushion of a thigh.
The long way north takes us in unplanned directions,
detours through talk of infidelities and
treacherous turns of conversation,
yet, miraculously, we navigate
the debris of ego and misunderstanding,
veering past head-on judgment, suffered or imposed,
full round to safe harbor.
Rested, even I am lured by the
Sirens of Easy Wager, or at least intrigued
as they call your name, so later I sit,
breasts pressed into your back,
prepared to shore your resolve with
the sheer force of my presence or failing all else,
the depth of my décolletage.
My plunderer, my gypsy, take me,
take me anywhere, take me with you.
From the flame tongues of my desire for you,
from the ocean floor of my resolve I know
I will follow this love into oblivion,
whether I am annihilated in union
or torn asunder on its stones, I go willingly.