The Question of You

It's the morning of the second day
Sunday
A day of rest
A day after the dinner
The day I'm to leave

We're in the kitchen
Dishes done
The coffees cold and unnoticed
As we hold each other quietly
Steadily

I sit in the reeds of your barstool
You stand, leaning in
My thoughts are as tousled as the comforter on your unmade bed
I can only obey the hunger of my hands
And the need to tongue-tip
That sweet corded spot on the side of your neck,
Your lips, your cheek, your eyebrows, your temple
As your head dips
So I may kiss your forward-falling hair
I notice your hairline,
Straight and left of center,
Spirals into itself at the crown

A question mark genetically coded into your inquisitive body

We tread upstairs to re-read you.
I begin at your toes
but by the time I get to the mark
I’ve lost my thought and sense.
I’m a slow reader
my answers all multiple choice
Can you please repeat your question?

 

 

© 2002 Homer Christensen

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