Body

It’s easy to convince myself

that I am just a body:

We talk, of course, the game gets played,

with strict adherence to

the rules that go unspoken, taunt

and tease with easy grins

with nothing said at all, but arms

are pressed like leaves of books,

unpullable apart, and feet

diagonally cross,

eleven overlaid by eight

so our limbs are caught like neck-

lace chains, while mouths just talk and talk.

It’s innocent enough

of touch that smiles shoot our way

instead of whispers of

chagrin. And then he asks me off

the roof, the gathered group

persisting there with beer and smoke

in mouth. I leave with him

on phony chore, a single light-

er can’t be found alone.

And when alone he kisses me,

mouth sweet-fermented-sour,

his hands beneath my shirt on waist

and travel up my spine,

then free again, in hair and skirt;

he revels just to roam

and hear the noises he evokes

from neck and ear and teeth.

I heard him when he said that he’s

not looking for a date,

Acerbic truth I swallow, cut

with sugar of his touch,

resign myself to only body,

I crave the heat enough

that heartache cold is washed away,

and so I trail my hands

right back, his back a map of nerves,

and revel, too, in skin,

enjoying the awakening,

expecting nothing more

than body, touch is all that’s here.

But then, we meet again;

He asks if I am sleeping well.

But then: he holds my hand.

So now, can I convince myself,

that I am just a body?

Spring 2023