When King David was very old, he could not keep

warm even when they put covers over him.

               —1 Kings 1:1–2

 

What is there to do but tuck his head

in the nook of her arm, cradling him like an infant.

 

Her blood runs hot. She has chased after birds,

dogs, and clouds with less calling—now

 

she wills fire to burn through her skin,

binds his feet tight with blankets, every inch

 

of her pressed against his dry locust bones,

fists rubbing at the lake bed of his stomach.

 

She kneads his arms of ice, unbraids her hair

to river his shoulders. They couple in a dream

 

she’ll never have. Chest to chest, her muscles

tense to force heat from her body to his.

 

She thinks of the boy who prevailed against a giant,

longs for the bright gold of him, sling

 

and stones, not this creature whose confused eyes

search hers for mercy, hands shaking,

 

skin like papyrus. Her heat rises

to the palace roof, her bony knees, kindling.

 

She is, herself, the whole, brightening universe.

Her womb not yet opened, still smelling of stars.