The Jeweller's Mistress

At night in her high white bed
she dreams of piercing
his electroplated heart,
annealing its gilded armour
into liquid gold.
In the dark she would burnish
his sharp corners, the soldered seams
that hem him in,
planish and polish with pumice
and fine sand his jagged exterior
on her spinning felt bob,
sink her die like sharp teeth
into his new softenss,
engrave her name
across his chest decorating
the chasing with a tattoo
of translucent Champlève
or Baisse-taille, then hallmark
his Millegrain
with her own secret stamp;
a lion passant, behind
the pink whorl of his left ear.