She Is The Flat Of A Hand
Her body is smooth before you as an agate
asleep on the creek’s soft bottom, ridged
and swirled from a current running over it.
The icy water biting at your wrist as you reach
for a rock jammed against countless others,
this one as white as the moon. Inside she is
warm and swollen as a mollusk
tucked within her striped shell, her wanting,
her desire safely hidden from prying eyes.
She tastes of pure sea, her mouth
and skin both smelling of baked bread,
the smell of home. The nights that you
are with her and she is open to you,
bringing nothing to her her but a face
as worthless as words. She is such a woman,
each sound that leaves her mouth is her own,
never moaning for your benefit or looking away
as you move over her helplessly.
She is the flat of a hand that rises unselfishly
to touch the sun, the skin on the back bend
of her knee exposed to its light. Her eyes
watching as you examine the land of her body
once covered in clothes, the only truth in her
revealed the instant you turn over, believing
you have felt all there is to feel. Only then,
when you are satisfied, does she cock a hip
and let go all the secrets to her being.
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