It isn't gentle
at all
my intent at corruption
I picture him flattened beneath me
like a blade of grass
all earthy and motion-full.
It isn't innocent
in any way
this need to extend his
legs around me like hanging candles
on fire and dripping wax.
It isn't delicacy
that drives me,
I long to tell him everything
in me - light and dark - with my lips on his
suspended in animated passion
like a frozen flower.
It isn't sleep
I want to experience
with him although in my dreams he
is all structure and no precaution
and that's nice because I can
brush against him like a low chair.
It isn't cruel
either my need to tear him from all things
familial - it's just
a sloe-eyed human need to open
for someone - for him - that connection
repeated like skipping rocks on water.
It isn't faint
that cry
with shut eyes, I write about, just an
indecipherable longing -
vibrant - staggering - guiltless - radiant
and me there...
floating toward its source.

Also by Trace Weatherford  Dig Me -->

Trace Weatherford lives in Southern California. She has been published in ONTHEBUS, Spillway and Voices among other places.
Email Trace Weatherford at trace@gumballpoetry.com.

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