Have light eyes, or light in your eyes. Have soft hands or rough. Be taller than me. Shorter. Hold me in your vision. In your light. I am the fruit that contains the last possible slaking of your thirst. Do not forget this.
Have a way. Haberdash. Fine cotton buttondown, cashmere sweater, thin white undershirt. Peel whatever off your heaving chest. Leave your belt to me. Bury my face in the hair over your heart.
Show up for me. Come at dusk and at dawn and come. Wherever you are be with me. Remember my name. Stroke it in your mind. Call it from heart and groin. Two syllables out of you like an exclamation. Be grateful when you touch me. Not gentle. Take off your socks. I’m serious. Right now. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Nothing until you take off your socks.
Reveal to me the secrets of your body. The pale undersides of your feet, your goatish thigh fur, your eminently chewable eyebrow. The wrinkled dignity of the perineum, the tender secrets of your back. Guide my fingertips across the bas-relief of scars and markings, fissures and veins. Put one in my hand still singing. Lie down in the space you make for me and I rise up around you in a storm. What is that expression on your face, when we meet? It better be a smile of mild astonishment.
Whatever else you are you are always new, clad in a black silk habit beat about your body by the wind on the bare plain. Hair blown back over your forehead. Seeing with your fair eyes. Your mouth taking color from inside my own.
Do you hear thunder? Lightning is next. Go inside. Get on your knees. Open your mouth.
Lisa Locascio‘s work has or will appear in n+1, The Believer, Salon, Bookforum, Los Angeles Review, and Vol. 1 Brooklyn, among others. She edits the Los Angeles and San Francisco editions of Joyland, and at the new ekphrastic collaboration magazine 7×7. Witch concerns and lesser History Channel miniseries / Teen Mom franchise livetweets can be had @senzaflash.