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,






testing the sinew between muscle 


and bone, rising 


and falling, 


again and 




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


                                           And, now, I’ve written a poem 


                                           about a mistaken moment of sincerity. 


                                           How embarrassing. I feel sick.