Always the golden girl in your life.
The gold rush in your heart
The gold fever to your flesh
The gold lump in your throat.
And the gold pans inside your eyes.
She possesses sandy skin, interlaced in gold thread
Her body is gold country, and you begin
As a cartographer, but in time, you become a prospector
Who mines nuggets from all the right places,
In the middle of the square cheek bones
Or at the center of her universe.
She possesses a Midas’s touch, about her
Her voice is golden, silky and as smooth as white wine
And luscious as the gold milk poured on a cast
To make a little artefact – conversation –
That sculpts golden moments in absolute abundance.
She possesses a heart bricked in ingots
Beautifully crafted yet always vulnerable
To all that you are – and who you’re not.
And she only asks for a pledge in time
Where a gold band in countless symmetry
Begins a journey towards an eternity,
And you begin under a golden moon,
Pouring honey to all her barometry
Sweetening every one of her gold mines.
A sheer wilderness, her Botswana,
Which you now prospect.
And one day she will be your golden goose
That lays golden eggs, which journey
Through finger-caress of Fimbriae
And a little swim in Fallopian currents
To arrive at a golden triangle, her uterus;
A large room with a spindle, little
Placental fibers, and a tiny mass of cells,
As magical as the elf rumpelstiltskin
Turning straw into gold.