TERESA & I

Susanna Demelas

For Teresa of Avila, 1515-1582

When I sprawl across linen sheets,

with half-shut eyes and a reddened face 

Teresa often appears to me: a slouched

apparition, tranquil at my bedside

She presents herself as a lover, gazing; 

as she bathes in aurous lamp-light.

Amidst the heat, her fingers unclasp

shifting from her chin, to across my back: 

an arch rises atop the mattress, as her nails 

turn to arrows on my spine – 

Sharp sweeps of master precision,

make me writhe and begin to exhale. 

Hearing me, her eyes transform

blazing white as she witnesses

pure feeling – yet unspoiled by crude hands

or passions (of man, artist, voyeur)

She smiles as I twist myself into 

the picture of her own pleasure. 

Turning inwards, her mouth greets 

my ear, stirring me with her groans – 

a sweet, guttural contralto, unrestrained 

by lips clogged with mindless grit and marble; 

I adore my body while it breathes life

into her hardened lungs. 

As our clamour eases, we collapse

– together – in the centre of my bed, forming  

a final strange embrace. Cooling lips 

press my forehead, bruising me with the kiss

which will remain on me, as she fades

and I lie still.