She asks for conversation
as she whispers insistently
along the length of me.
Her hands flower between my thighs,
dance a rain dance
that pulls a bright and shining river
from the swollen sky of my stomach.
My mouth drinks
and puts quick breaths
back into the dark night air,
little silver o’s,
shiny and round like mirror
or a not-too-quiet echo
of the breathless prayer we recite.
Even in the absence of her,
my skin flushes cherry and damp
at the memory of her kiss.
Kris McHaddad lives in Leona Valley, California where she teaches the first grade. Her poetry has been widely published.