Once, I would wake early;
leg cramps and dry-mouth,
I'd stay small, and still,
afraid of hands and hips
and which would convince
the other into action.

But you are 174 mornings
of numb wrists -
of wet hair, sweat
on my neck, nails bitten
and ripped cuticles.
My fingers in my mouth
remind me of you.

You are also six months
of rum in my throat, warm
in my jaw, syrup on my teeth.
I wear that night like a mood
ring, measuring heat.

First there was your tongue
on my palm, intent in your eyes.
You crouched near my thigh
like a stick bug, tiny thing,
a slight thing. I touched your cheek
and it quieted me.

And who could touch
your shoulders and not return
to them every seventh day?
Who could touch you
and remain standing?

07/21/2006

Author's Note: first since March.draft,etc.

Posted on 07/21/2006
Copyright © 2024 Christina Gleason