There is no wind. You know only…
my breath on your skin.
No sun, no warmth…but the heat of my body, a guide to your fingers.
No light; blindfolded.
You are blinded by dark matter,save for the radiant white of my irises
leading you, always.
The moon in each pupil
–A gift; a reflection of your alabaster heart in the dark matter.
Should the moon slip from your hands,
should it dip behind the clouds…
Such is prelude to punish you, as I must.
Don’t fear instruction;
it is mine to teach…
To make you yield,
to turn alabaster to cotton when you must kneel
and cotton to marble when you are to stand
It is mine to erase the arches of protest,
of your resistance–one by one–if necessary.
It is mine to chain you,
to bare the whip
as you bear the whip.
To make you listen
and hear your voice
the ballads and melodies of the hand you bit
and begged to kneel beside.
The hand you bite
has always been…
the hand that feeds you.