Waging a war of desire, we
set boundaries between skin and skin,
and then the journeying in
of the hand across the thigh.
A chasm where lips refuse to touch,
they linger, long, like continental plates,
where hairs, erect, are brushed
to send upheval through land of skin.
Fingers march like armies
around a curling arm,
and camp in a sensitive copse,
and do not sate
their generals’ swift desires.
They want attendant hands to lay
out detailed maps upon the floor,
for their examination;
study every sector, every
topographic outlay;
order armies, marching down
through weak defensive gambles,
all their knowledge playing
to the beat of drums and heart.
War is a delicate task, like
unseeing mustard gas,
like carpet bombing El Mazuco,
sundering mountains down to waste.
Love is a brutal thing, like
a tender divot on your neck,
like kisses exalting your chin,
finding your lips with strategic precision.