Tilt-a-Whirl
A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms

Ballade of the Bod

You know each separate part; you know the whole.
You make the world stand still; you make it spin.
Your every kiss ignites an aureole
With which plain virtue glows like garish sin.
If sex is a grenade, you pull the pin.
You take aim at me from that grassy knoll
Where all conspiracies end and begin.
Your body maps the contours of my soul.

Yours is the stage on which I play the role
Of bright-rubbed lamp and wonder-working djinn,
Yours the enchanted alley where I bowl
And get sent sprawling like a candlepin.
Who needs the journals of Anaïs Nin
If I may dip my quill and sign your scroll?
You stoop to conquer like a peregrine.
Your body maps the contours of my soul.

You are the goalie opening the goal
And welcoming the score that lets me win,
The chef whose oven heats this casserole
Of yang enfolded in sweet, spicy yin,
The bracing shot of high-proof, brand-name gin
That makes my breath halt and my eyeballs roll,
My mirthful kith and my most solemn kin.
Your body maps the contours of my soul.

Prints of your touch that linger on my skin
Like ferns imparting life’s own warmth to coal
Remind the flesh that it’s the spirit’s twin.
Your body maps the contours of my soul.