to cover us; the soft of musk, the body’s heat
from an air pocket, nudged and wayward. The scent
of fading bleach. I give you the curl of my back, a nonevent.
Yet, all of it art. Ingres and Ingres’ Odalisque
who drapes a velvet curtain’s jeweled sash
across her calf; whose hips turn in a wash
of Turkish hues. A French settee
or this bed: staging we need
to fuel our natural lives. To feel the body lift
to the extension of a kiss. The temporal shift
in calling souls home -- stomach, thighs -- like this.
A quickening in canvas or stone:
my open mouth and your inarticulate moan.
Copyright © 2006 M. B. McLatchey All rights reserved.
Published in The Comstock Review., Fall/Winter 2006.