I Tell You This is Love

I tell you.
This is love.

His hand covers my face.
I bite down on his thumb,
I think:

This ain't
how it's done-
in porno-pictures,
nasty movies-

-This ain't the shit
that I've
seen on TV.

The skin on his back
curls up under my nails-
Lord help me-
It can't be a sin;

shake off this outer layer,
wake up free,
alive again.

Box-springs squeak,
blood pressure peaks.

This has nothing-
nothing-
to do with
how I look
or
what smells
good
on my skin.

I tell you.
This ain't a goddam picture.
I tell you, this- this-
ain't no cupid's arrow,
no divine interventive hand,
no blessing from above.

This is strong hands
that grab me, hold me, harder
as I feel my body shove.

This ain't no game;
it's four lungs
breathing heat,
salt, fire-

This is the smell of sweat
that skates
sharp across the iron
taste
of my own blood.

I tell you.

This ain't no
goddam
fairy-story.

Brother,
I tell you;
this is love.