Tools of the Trade

Wrists in your hands, caught by the arbitrary whims of speech and silence
         they are shackles deployed masterfully, gilded to be sure,
but shackles all the same, forged of burning metal and slavish devotion;
they anchor me to a vanishing coast minutes before the tide rolls in.

         We hover in the moment, uncertain.  I submit.

The restraints are actually built of love and indifference, yours and mine,
         stronger than steel, padded to hide their brutal purpose
binding me, an immovable object, to the unstoppable force of this
inevitable betrayal, doubly hurtful for being expected.

         Self-respect demanded that I at least attempt an escape

For the chains of obsession have lashed me to the bedpost
         more securely than the tools of your trade:
The belt of Italian leather that nevertheless buckles with the strain of struggle
countless fruitless efforts that succeed only in rattling the headboard

         And fluttering the curtains in the wake of your departure;

The tie of handspun Japanese silk, hot from the beating of your chest
         carrying the scent of cologne and man, wound tightly across my eyes
so though you walked out of the room the scent lingered in the air
sharpening the sense of civilized menace these bedroom games implied;

         The cotton handkerchief to wipe your hands afterwards.

I sob softly at the realization that with strong hands and a wicked heart
         you had seduced my fears into quiescence for long enough

That the door closes quietly behind you.