While it is clear that you love
the way her heart climbs jagged
moonbits with yours, that you love

the shiver of your mind when
she shrugs out silver clues to
your private puzzles, she knows

it's all about the power
of her thighs. Not the way she
strides, but stands -- on thick legged

chords of Thad Jones and Mingus --
rooting out comic book smells
of cute little red haired girls.

While she'll curl around the scrawl
of your tongue over those tight
maps of muscled skin, she knows

you scavenge a secret glee
from placing your gentle skull
between that wishbone of legs

(those soft potential death clamps)
as you trust that once again
you'll emerge, treasured and safe.

copyright © 2001, Lucy Anderton & the e-poets network
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