Waking from the dim of architecture, walking into overcast: she,
trapping my arm in both her arms, pressing her breast against the tendons of my wrist.
We resemble colleagues, pondering numbers, other intangibles.
The four or five of us, lying on a troubled hardbed, solemn,
sliding into, out of shadow, into, out of imitations of incoherence: she,
taking my arm in both her hands, jamming the crook of my elbow into, over the tendons of her neck.
I will run the shallow cup of my palm, the heel of my thumb, across her breast, over and over and over.
We may deny it, but we are veterans, discussing gun control, the various colours of scars.
Lying beneath me, in sheltering hedgerows, the safety of brambles, the buzz of the light: she,
taking my head to her breast, commanding me to suck, be silent, be still.
I map her skin against my skin; I measure the swell of her breathing, the lapping of her pulse.
I taste her. I begin to feel the sun across my back.
Copyright John D Porter © 1998
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