The Recipe For Resurrection

The Recipe For Resurrection

Sometimes,
I think what I need,
is for a stranger to slowly braid my hair
while I listen to a soft voice
sing my poetry back to me,
like a hymn brimmed with rapture,
but whispered.
I’d like to hear conviction in the voice,
fused with perception,
while deliberate fingers
trace erogenous shapes on my back,
overtop the cashmere or the silk,
hinting at slight indecency.
I need to hear subtle laudation,
when I stretch my limbs,
or walk about unclothed,
unabashed and secure in my skin.
Call me flower, or saint,
or something that shines light,
and for a while,
I might let myself buy the glory.
A warm, ethereal breeze,
could push my hair back
and let it fall
in a way that alludes to design,
making my comeliness seem incidental
but also indisputable.
I would love on my own terms,
in a way that doesn’t involve duty,
undulating while the lights glow low,
luxuriating in the wealth of sensations,
as the night finds its own pulse
in our rhythm.
Then, I‘d fall asleep,
without the encumbrance of introspection,
or the heavy weight of contrition.
A deep, twitching, converting sleep,
until the sun would bleed from the horizon,
rousing me just enough
to allow myself the pleasure
of believing it was real:
this spirit’s revival.