Brontide

You entered my service white clothed and wide eyed,
the top of your head barely reaching my shoulders.
We spoke little; I preferred silence.
As your eyes proffered meaning, you steepled your fingers.
Chortled. Older than I had suspected, then.

Monsoon season came. Amid brontide,
I would catch glimpse of your fire red hair,
hovering above the candles,
accompanied by the wet slap of feet on stones:
shouts chased you 'round columns, dizzying.

Finally, I trapped you in weighted arms,
whispering warnings, alarum-pitched,
as I pressed you 'gainst me, measuring –
your lips nestled by my ear this time.
But – not yet. Not yet.

Your mouth will taste of Lot's wife
- salt from the alter you
are so used to pressing lips to
- - I have seen you,
knelt against the marble like
you're the only person left in the world.

And you are the only god worth worshipping.

Next monsoon season, I am determined to have you:
backed up in the red tape of a complaint,
hips against my graduations – measuring.
You will have grown up.
But not too much.