The back of my head
Is looked at more times
Than I dare to dream,
On buses,
or
Before the lights go
Out on the cinema screen.

That’s the first
Place I want you to touch

Where my hair tapers
In wisps,
With your thumb
In the dip of my brain,
Touching across the centuries -
Go on
Push a fingerprint
into the prehistoric
Me.

Mould your hands into
the backs of my knees,
Hold them
like shields,
And fight all of
My body's wars with me.
The trembling there
is love,
my love,
and not
a
tremor.

Nudge the wild treasure
under my arms
like an animal
with your wet nose,
go searching for
the smell of gold,
buried
in the black sand,

take my hands
and love my blue veins
like little ribbons,
follow them like rivers
to the sea,
to my mouth,
to the mouth of the sea,

spread out my sails,
my shoulder blades,
and swim
with your fingers
to kiss
under my ear,
that bit
where
chandelier earrings
hit girls,

and find the
backs of my thighs
and paddle
there,
as hard or as soft
as you like,
just enough
to keep me
floating,

then up up
an inch or so,

a little circle,
as though
you're rubbing
spilled tea
into a wooden tabletop,
a circle
a little 'oh'
my head pressing
swearwords
to my pillow.