Jun 242014
 

Kathleen Nalley

 

 

At first, there would be sin.

 

We’d sing praises for our bodies,

 

the ripple of touch, the blushed skin,

 

the sinuous angles 

 

we move within,

 

tensing, 

 

tensing, 

 

testing the sinew between muscle 

 

and bone, rising 

 

and falling, 

 

again and 

 

again.

 

A single touch, a singe, 

 

a fire uprising, your grasp 

 

on my hips, a rosin,

 

your taste 

 

stronger than absinthe, perusing each inch of my body 

 

surprisingly, gently, insinuating 

 

more. Love, perhaps. But, 

 

                                           I misinterpreted 

 

                                           your signs. You didn’t stick around

 

                                           to even see morning. I’ve not seen you
                                                since. 

 

                                           And, now, I’ve written a poem 

 

                                           about a mistaken moment of sincerity. 

 

                                           How embarrassing. I feel sick.