Aquarius

I know he’s Ganymede, another gorgeous

bum-boy of the Gods, but we

all have our own mythologies and

water makes me think of women.

 

Maybe it’s the spill and torrent of hair

as she bends to a kiss, or the

billows of her body

breaking over my groyne, or the

tempests of tears that

undermine my foundations, or the

drip, drip, drip of her passion slowly

weathering my stone.

 

Times she will talk like a river in spate

–crushing, churning, heaving

great boulders of thought—

into which I daresn’t step:

but rivers become seas become Ocean;

chaos, commingled, calms;

and the oily slap of home waters will

rock my dark hull to deep sleep.

 

There was a girl from Canada, once

who wished for a river: this one?

Eridanus? flowing from the cup,

in which whales and southern fishes swim?

Maybe not: she wanted to skate away

avoiding the buoys and

making me smile by saying

“Boo-eys”, not “boys”.

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