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.