that the incubus is still
after all these nights
a mystery to me, with his
rippling heat, his sudden chills
and I to him
the last unknown.
Tonight he’s here to play his games,
oh the same games so sweet and heavy
with desire I can barely carry them
to the last decimal.
I don’t choose to resist; resistance
only teases. Besides,
he keeps me too busy to care, while he
recites beneath my breath the half-made spell
he's come to fetch my blood to cook.
I know he wants to
catch me in a foolishness
even greater than the one that calls him here
but I am sly, slyer than I was
before he seared that first split hoofprint on my breast,
before we danced tail to tail under the cracked moon
before he claimed on smoky contractual clauses
with just a trace of suphur-tinged regret.
No, he won’t catch me
till he turns his back and finds
I’m wound where he had no idea
I could bind.
The inimitable Fireblossom hosts today at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, and her theme is temptation, or perhaps confession, or both. I'm obviously too perplexed to tell.