“Give me your tongue, ” you cry
as I lower myself onto you
gripping your shoulders
as if you might fly out
from under me into the night

and I would tear it out
from the root and hand it to you
still warm, saying “love, love”
even though I were mute
and I would give you two sons
fresh from the womb

and here are my eyes:
the blasted heath is gone
and the daughter is kneeling
in gratitude, her honesty
a gift, not a curse, fully understood
to lead this man from his prison, into
clear daylight, into the sun,
scholar, little boy, king.