I want to chronicle your hands with mine—

Want, by untangling mysteries of hair,

To give your neck a novel’s premier line.

Make no bones, this narrative to bare

Love in a word is spineless: thus my need

To roll you on my tongue. The allegories

You call your eyes begin all that you read

Now in my lips. Your hips tell stirring stories,

But rare and out-of-print, so on your back

I’ll ink with fingertips but let my title

Disappear, since lettered skin can crack.

If turning pages find your heart, it’s vital

You understand appendices I’ve penned

Wish that the body of our book not end.

Steven D. Schroeder (CO)  edits The Eleventh Muse and works as a Certified Professional Résumé Writer. His poetry appears in The National Poetry Review (winner of the Laureate Prize), 32 Poems, Bat City Review, The American Poetry Journal, and elsewhere.