Zócalo: Jaguar Speak

The Silence in Your Voice
 

     The silence in your voice speaks from deep within you. I am deaf with breaking waves, the breeze in the trees, the pounding of hearts and your breath on my ear, now rapid from tension then apprehension.  Fingers that began to touch as cotton balls now rip at me until there is a cat in the room clawing my back.
     Our dance begins at dawn, at sunrise, when penetrating yellows slice the pink glows above the silky smooth palms swaying, playing in the wind, holding mangos full of life pulsing, moving round in samba rhythms above the plane of snow white beaches, dunes shaped by wind and watery motions pulled as they reach for Venus and ends in the abyss of your pink and purple blooming flower. 
    You search for warm and the hot rays emitting hot energy of exploding fires finding a home in your garden, taking each burst and sending it deeper into the core of your heart, the earth.
    You capture my mind and hold it in time like a prisoner locked in bliss, a kiss I can’t escape.  Take me to your dungeon and torture me with your charms, make me scream out.  Drench my torch in our flames and know that only your wetness can release me.
    Take my key and open your lock.  Turn it, twist the tumblers left and right, just like combinations set in perfect sequence to entrance the door to the magic light that burns up the night and shines when as one we burn up the sun.  

Alan Goodin, Rev: July 16, 2006