There is much to be said
about the taste of someone else's wife. I worship her, paint curves with church wine, lay communion wafers on the rise and fall of a breastbone. Wafers like lily pads on a pond, A path for the enchanted leading …. Her heat melts under my skin. I can feel charges unannounced, receptors blooming open and ready, trembling like a tulip. My aging (catholic schoolgirl) knees tremble. We make the sign of the cross. Fingers kiss my forehead, the hollow of my chest, the boney knobs of my shoulders. I breathe in the neighborhood, where it clings to neck hollows. The scent, a rush of sugar cookies, fresh hung laundry, and newspaper. The rise and fall of her breath is a hymn. How can they tell me this is not what sacred is.
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Christine NicholsChristine Nichols is a student in the MFA program at Oklahoma State University in Stillwater, OK. |