IN SUMMER, WHEN IT IS WARM

Who hasn't made love without wondering
whether to scratch his back with your fingernails,
whether bruising his neck with your mouth or biting
him here and here, then softly on his belly until
the next day

you're wide awake and laughing at the marks that you
have made? He's in the bathroom
wiping the steam from the mirror with the towel.
If you open the door you can watch his wondering
what to do about the love-bites.

Perhaps it wasn't quite like that. Dionysus left the
ivy
leaves at home. He went to the pub without enough
protection.
The god of fertility, wine and ecstatic
trance saw me and that was that. Of course we
danced.
We were so damn horny we didn't care about the
chorus
crying 'get yourselves a room.'

The ivy grows in spirals, symbols of resurrection
and rebirth.
This love would have to die. Dionysus didn't help.
He wandered the world. He founded cities, fought in
battles
and always threatened war if questions were asked
about his divinity.

Sometimes he'd go into a terrible rage.
November made him worse. He should have known
the veils between the worlds were transparent and
tragically
thin. I told him not to look but he saw the Ivy
moon. Dionysus
let it rip. His lip curled and he spat. He didn't
care
for common sense and had forgotten how to celebrate.

Ivy has to be pruned in summer when its warm.
Dionysus never bothered with plants. He was more
into lions
and panthers and other big cats. He must have been
tanked
when he offered to trim that trellis taking over the
land.

I lead him down the drive-way without a single word.
Even if I had explained, I doubt he would have heard
nor fully
understood ivy is a love that used to be but is not
anymore.

He spent all day cutting ivy and ripping out its
roots.
Then he spent all night comatose and unhealthy waxy
white.
Early the next morning, he cuddled me, then tore
himself apart. I guess it doesn't matter. Ivy is
tenacious and strong.
It advances slowly and cannot be stopped.