by Hilda Doolittle
I first tasted under Apollo's lips,
love and love sweetness,
my hair is made of crisp violets
or hyacinth which the wind combs back
across some rock shelf;
was made of the god of light.
His hair was crisp to my mouth,
as the flower of the crocus,
across my cheek,
cool as the silver-cress
on Erotos bank;
between my chin and throat,
his mouth slipped over and over.
Still between my arm and shoulder,
I feel the brush of his hair,
and my hands keep the gold they took,
as they wandered over and over,
that great arm-full of yellow flowers.
Last updated May 02, 2015