Lie down. Rest your head. I will open, for this flesh is not my own, and I give it freely, giving back something borrowed without consent, after thinking I might have myself awhile, but what good is it to live in the weight of one’s own body? I send it off to be of the you we rarely speak of, to witness its service, the tongue like rain at your clavicle, the breath sultry on your chest, the mouth laden where you allow, where I am yours, where I am greater, until you come to restiveness, climbing behind my body. Now your mouth at work where it must, then the breaking open and passing through, burning flesh with flesh, but delicately, as if that were possible for what can never be delicate. I don’t want to hurt you. No more than necessary, for after fire, after service, bodies are of themselves. But here, your head bows above mine, your lips tremble at my ear, whispering a prayer to my prostate body. Now the knowledge that you won’t come, only end, so I wait for you to decide. My hands try to reach beyond flame beyond joy beyond that a oneness that might bring me back together no longer in need of your need of you as witness to the coming of my body since that itself is now enough