JEHANNE
DUBROW
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David to Bathsheba
And David sent messengers, and took her
—2 Samuel 11.4
My hand held tight
before it learned release.
Call this my signature—a
smudge of blue,
the place where ropes were wrapped around your wrist,
drawing a line so pale as to almost be
a shadow. Force is the thing. A bedroom game
cannot be played with velvet words alone,
though I could write you poetry and have:
O silky-haired. O
bind I’d
like to cut.
Your snakeskin body gleaming on the roof
was like a braid that pulled me to the window.
I sent my messengers then wound them back
to me. Forgive the knot that stopped my throat
and forced my knifing touch, but with what speech
could I undo the red cord of your mouth?
