The Breath of Life

The Breath of Life

        "... and hold her / till she is awake again."
        Eric Dutton's "Staying Married"

After church
we lie together on the narrow futon
and I am wrapped around you
like a thin tree snake holding a pregnant dove--
the look of peace in your eyes
is so gentle, your soul so clear that
the tears come to my eyes
again.
        It must have been like this
the first time. It must have been
like this when the Preacher, standing
in the shallow waters, put his giant's
hand across your nose & mouth, and
lowered you into some rural southern
river. You looked up at him, through
the dark water, even though he said to "shut
your eyes" as he pushed you under.
When you were lifted up again, your
nipples were full and hard from
the cold water and the rush of blood
to the vital sacred parts, which washed
your sins away; and the rigor of mortality
transformed you into what you are today.
        Your eyes are clear again.
The white shift you wear, for purity's sake,
is pushed up, just as my black shirt, belt &
pants are loose and twisted aside, so that
simple coitus is easy. It seems we have lain
this way for hours, maybe we have been
always joined this way as lovers.
You move, slightly, to show you are
ready again. Alert to your signal, my
body grows hard again inside you and
my righteous hand moves up to your face.
        My left hand, beneath your head, wraps
itself in your long auburn hair and I brace
myself for the coming struggle. Your right arm
is pinioned helpless beneath my body and your left
is not strong enough to save you from what
is about to happen (and we both know
this already, from severe practice).
The scratches on my face prove this:
Death can be relentless in his love.
        Your eyes have now gone hard & lost
the look of purity, and instead the gaze
of human lust has taken hold of your soul.
You must be punished this way,
again and again.
        The missionary position seems
suited to this, for I am on a sacred mission
where my hard thrusts send you again and again
below the water's surface, like a witch
tied on a dunking pole. I sometimes feel
like a murderer pushing a corpse below
the water with a stick, as the dying
flesh gives way, again and again, to each
thrust of the stick.
        My muscles, every sinew, goes hard
and taut, braced for this task. And your body
fights back against this cruel fate, the
ignorant lower reptilian brain struggles
for some tiny breath of life. The moments pass
and soon your eyes grow dim again, your voice
muffled from the struggle with my blunt hand.
Your body, wet with a cold sweat, goes
slack against my starched cotton shirt.
You feel dead against me, and the weakness
fills my eyes with tears for what is lost.
I remove my hand. Soon I feel the faint intake
of breath and the barely muffled sob.
        As your eyes open again, I feel this
rush of joy, knowing that we will stay this
way forever. Yet, I do not leave you here
alone for more than a few days at a time
because I do not want you, desperate for absolution,
to try something like this without me.
        Accidents happen. And sometimes
      &nbsp without possibility of redemption.