The men now rise, brush off dust, and each walks to his chosen woman. Some reach for the lute. The drums and humming have tapered off. Men’s tender fingers take hold of a woman, or, a strumming instrument, wrapping each into his breast for the dance.
Dodi comes to me.
His right wraps around my back. His wide palm cups below my ribs, to my slight shiver. The sun-spot of our breasts connect. I become a soft drape to his muscle-carved chest. Her moon shines my right cheek, just as I turn my head and rest it at the side of his. I close my eyes into deep-belly breath. Breath meets breath.
We sway as drums enter to dance.
We wind our spines as the strings are strummed.
A flute’s tone breezes behind my knees, leading my steps in the following of him.
I enjoin to his steps. His twists, his dips and rises, and I am riding.
The sound, the light, the warmth of sweated flesh, the breath- it all becomes a whole. It is a wash over me. I am washed…clean.
All around the ceremony-circle are pairs engaged in their prayer-dance. Now time, while so palpably spiraling, at once too, stands still.
I slide my eyelids a bit apart. Adoring scanning the edge of his jaw, his distinguished chin, I continue moving. I see a gliding grace of black curls dipped in the sweat of his neck. They dangle by his collar bone. Mother-Moon light reflects on that wet. Sweet sweat trickles down my bare back and stops on his arm which braces my mid-ribs.
Men’s whispers now loft in the breeze, hovering just above the beats. It is the men enunciating their praise.
- * * * *
In the cave of his silent sleeping, he says:
I am not sure how much to say.
or how much I can stand to feel, actually..
I fear –
you are not me.
you are love
…glowing and flowing
you are everything – expressed, undressed…
I would slide in there, by the suck of that wondrous scent… and
I would fall in and i would just die there – but – –
I would die!
and i reply: Yes – Wonderful.
yes, death. dodi, yes.