(based on Gustav Klimt’s painting of the same name)
On the bed, he holds her neck,
her hand all the while on his,
the golden fabric of tryst.
There are flowers in her hair
& he has not kissed her mouth
He leans over her, clearly wants her.
She is his, maybe.
Sitting in a chair opposite,
you only see a peacock raiment
& the eyes that look back at you
in flowers, whorls.
They are one body.
You cannot tell him from her
but it does not matter now.
Her eyes are shut & he is still
kissing her. They are like flowers.
Inseparable. Their bed is a garden.