Surrender

Surrender

by Debra Kraft

c 2008

Trapped in a circular room, 
a large room

palatial

the ceiling is far, too far. It towers,

hovers over my head.

My shoulders feel the weight, heavy

and black --

incongruous.

Before me all is white 
wisps of white curtains, 
sheer light curtains, so

delicate so clean, so

soft.

They sift past a distant breeze

and then shift

forward,

toward me

until I am surrounded.

A hundred hands, a thousand fingers,

pressing at the fabric, 
pushing from beyond, 
from without, from an out

side that does not exist, that cannot

exist.

All that is

is here, is this, this white room,

this round room, this merry-go-round

of white curtains and reaching hands,

this menagerie

of hands.

I spin around; I twist away and still those

hands encircle me, still those fingers press

and push and reach through sheer white silk,

through fine fabric so soft, so sheer, so

sharp,

as sharp as death, and

as dark as the dead sky, the forgotten sky.

No.

I remember.

I can still see the blue.

I can see the blue and white, 
wispy white

refuse

from passing jets from jet engines, from

monsters made for pushing, for pressing,

for reaching beyond. I can smell the fuel

burning, that oppressive, thick aroma, so

dark, so thick, so black, as

black as espresso.

I can taste the smooth silk on my tongue,

as grasping fingers reach me, as

they wrap around my arms. I can feel

that silken, smooth grip tightening, 
pressing down upon my shoulders, 
exploring the silk

of my breasts,

and the drip of warm espresso, so smooth,

as chocolate fluid glides along my thighs,

and all hope dies in longing

surrender