June 27 by Haven Meacham

What rare hour can you spare?

Only our star's dearth brings you to the garden.

You seem so clear, yet I wonder under what shade you will choose to sit.

Guided in an orchard of pain,

you circle back to find the center.

The basket laid bare, Pomona's jewelry dangles in your grasp.

Warmth swells low,

A fire moon in two cupped hands.

I'll kneel at your alter

My lust, like some third objective body,

will cover you.

Cinnamon and musk,

I bow my head and drink.

I press my offerings on you;

and gentle as a wing, you push back.

Spreading and blooming like some foreign vine,

There are no traps here;

Only me, insensate in my giving.

Orange juice and nectarines,

Hot baths and the sweat between my breasts.

Soothing the dissatisfaction of summer,

melon dew, and sugar-slick,

Venus will idealize Neptune.

I'll sip at the spilled wine;

and take whatever I can get.

Your rings round my fingers,

the fruit of dreams.

Love with a sacrifice of decency.

There is a deep well of new prayers,

but no golden dawn will crest to brush our skin