The Orchard of His Youth

The Orchard of His Youth

I made his hunger holy every time he touched my skin,

his youth an unripe peach I pressed to coax its gold;

and let the memory ripen past the man he’d ever been.

His body—an unfinished instrument trembling to begin—

I drew from him a music far too wild to hold;

I made his hunger holy every time he touched my skin.

He tasted of a sweetness caught between innocence and sin,

a breath half-formed, a promise early, bright, and bold;

and let the memory ripen past the man he’d ever been.

I taught him where to touch, how desire carves its origin,

while he wandered other nights, unbound, uncontrolled;

I made his hunger holy every time he touched my skin.

But wanting bruises fruit, and longing ferments within—

I turned the taste to honey though the truth was never told;

and let the memory ripen past the man he’d ever been.

Now lovers reach for me, but none unravel me as he did then—

their warmth too real, their bodies lacking myths I shaped and sold;

I made his hunger holy every time he touched my skin,

and let the memory ripen past the man he’d ever been.