Who hasn't made love without wondering
        whether to scratch his back with your fingernails,
        whether bruising his neck with your mouth or biting
        him here and here, then softly on his belly until
        the next day

        you're wide awake and laughing at the marks that you
        have made? He's in the bathroom
        wiping the steam from the mirror with the towel.
        If you open the door you can watch his wondering
        what to do about the love-bites.

        Perhaps it wasn't quite like that. Dionysus left the
        ivy
        leaves at home. He went to the pub without enough
        protection.
        The god of fertility, wine and ecstatic
        trance saw me and that was that. Of course we
        danced.
        We were so damn horny we didn't care about the
        chorus
        crying 'get yourselves a room.'

        The ivy grows in spirals, symbols of resurrection
        and rebirth.
        This love would have to die. Dionysus didn't help.
        He wandered the world. He founded cities, fought in
        battles
        and always threatened war if questions were asked
        about his divinity.

        Sometimes he'd go into a terrible rage.
        November made him worse. He should have known
        the veils between the worlds were transparent and
        tragically
        thin. I told him not to look but he saw the Ivy
        moon. Dionysus
        let it rip. His lip curled and he spat. He didn't
        care
        for common sense and had forgotten how to celebrate.

        Ivy has to be pruned in summer when its warm.
        Dionysus never bothered with plants. He was more
        into lions
        and panthers and other big cats. He must have been
        tanked
        when he offered to trim that trellis taking over the
        land.

        I lead him down the drive-way without a single word.
        Even if I had explained, I doubt he would have heard
        nor fully
        understood ivy is a love that used to be but is not
        anymore.

        He spent all day cutting ivy and ripping out its
        roots.
        Then he spent all night comatose and unhealthy waxy
        white.
        Early the next morning, he cuddled me, then tore
        himself apart. I guess it doesn't matter. Ivy is
        tenacious and strong.
        It advances slowly and cannot be stopped.

Copyright © Allison Eastley, 2005. All Rights Reserved.