I gather a few large, soft pillows from my bed and carry them outside, that we may recline upon them.
I set them down by edge of the roof, close to the vine of roses, which is twisting over the wooden lattice and into it. Between its diagonal slats I see a black void gaping upon us, dotted by a magical glint of starlight.
Separated from her by the thought of a kiss I sense her heat, and the gust of air scented by roses and by her flesh—but I cannot tell if the breath between us is hers or mine. Which is when I know, for one perfect moment, that she is part of my essence.
I am part of hers.
Bathsheba holds me in a tender embrace as I lay her down. Scattered petals fly off, swirling in the air around her long, silky hair that starts cascading here, over the pillows and onto the tile floor.
Accidentally the goblet, which she has set down next to her, tips over and some of the wine spills over her hip. I dip a finger in the red puddle beside her, and paint countless grapes around her waist.
Intoxicated I murmur to her, “Your graceful legs are like jewels, the work of an artist’s hands. Your navel is a rounded goblet that never lacks blended wine.”
I want to wait, wait for her to give herself to me—but in the end I cannot fight my passion any longer, and I take her. She sighs softly and arches against me, rising on the fervor of my caress, higher and higher into ecstasy.
"The miracle of Uvi Poznansky's writing is her uncanny ability to return to old stories
and make them brilliantly fresh"-Grady Harp, Hall of Fame reviewer