This Way Up
Her underwear drops quietly to the floor,
the tissue from the china bowls I bought
this afternoon. I don’t know what they’re for,
but hairline cracks in milky glaze had caught
the light. They seemed to whisper brittle vows,
they wanted to belong to me. Her skin
is bright with youth and sweat, and now
I watch her freckled, pearl-dashed toes curl in
beneath my touch. Each hollow of her back
will be unpacked and tasted, faintly tart
like dirty snow or something plastic-wrapped.
I space my fingers, numbering each part.
She moves away as if my touch is cold,
her closing fists, two bone-white china bowls.
February 2003
Next
Back to Index
