The Tuesday Poem

The touch of him

At dawn, I lie on my side, beside him, feel his fingers stir on me again like blessing, then he lifts himself up, leaning on his elbow with his mouth so close, over mine. My legs stretch toward the bottom of the bed, like the first, curved line of daylight unfolding from its kernel into air.

I have forgotten the last time, this close, I lay under a stranger’s skin and felt it worm through me. My eyes closed then. I wept into the glare of the sealed lid. I see my body frozen on that ground, the bare soul in its mouth as if it was hauled out, half-dead.