Beckon Poem by Eila Mahima Jaipaul

Mark me as yours,
lift me to your mouth
until my arms have nothing to hold
other than the measure of wings
across air.

Hum for me there,
in the dark,
singing of voices we'll not hear
and a moon too young to see.

When you taste,
taste deeper for the salt
and grief of me.
Take from my throat the cries
only made when dreaming of light dancing
along my very own curve of earth.

You will race through slick trees.
I will tremble breathless,
waiting for your hot voice,
and its one exploding word