The Games We Play

No amorous play

compares

with the high engendered by flirtations with the self.

Present it with honey-dripping couplets,

brush light, feather fingers across its skin,

swear with wonder to its extraordinariness.

When it greedily begins to lap it all up, asking for more,

tease

push

prod

provoke it

to do

the scandalous

the outrageous

the ‘impossible’.

When it bites the bait,

steps outside ‘itself’

and goes on

to do what you had fed into its imagination,

go ahead,

meet it,

give it

a noisy high-five,

while it grins from ear to ear

in shy, incredulous happiness.

Then get together,

throw back your head

and laugh,

with the blood rushing to your head.

Heady, heady delight.

I hope you dance.

when you walk.

And float.

when you dance.

First published in Metaphor Magazine, 17 February 2014.