No Comments// Posted in General, Poetry, Writing by Kerry Flory on 06.14.10.

i like when my mouth tastes of yours.
or maybe it’s just my tongue’s memory of what your tongue tastes like….
the chemistry of our salivas sliding and mixing,
lips igniting heat between lips,
teeth gently gnashing lip or cheek,
pushing chin, arching up,
held head in hands,
soft palms, firm grip—
cupping my tiny ears.
nimble fingers combing hair,
sweeping sanctioned hair strands from crossing invisible boundary lines….
your hands heading off to war–
purveyors of underswept shirt,
loosening clasps and hook and eyes,
dodging past scar tissue.
your cleansing placed between soft and bend,
rinsing battle wounds old and deep,
crease and crux, polished with lotions and loofahs,
islands of tawny porous pilgrimage,
awaiting the moment your warriors crossed land lines,
you strip layer of clothing with layer of inhibition,
off parts undeserving of sunlight’s rays.
bare-breasted backbones,
the epic travels of pointer and pinky straddle their dunes;
shoulders bowed in sheepishly now aching recumbent,
each kiss a hand grenade beneath collar bones receding.
hollowing a place to bleed out,
each clench of fingers into flesh, hungry lungs lunge and heave,
each thrust of your warmth laid upon toothpick frame,
bones bracing the fires,
bones bucking the bombs,
bones collapsing beneath the casualties of our unofficial wars.
hands, no longer soft and tender, pull tousles from their nest.
palms to flesh, stinging red welts, deeper the battle scars flush to surface.
soft linen sheets gossamer in mortuary moments,
settle over creases and feet, creases and feats,
the chill of goosebumps coaxed by open-window breezes.
where hot breath once raised skin with electricity,
the untraversed dunes wait for nature to flatten them silent and quiet.

our love was not sacred and soft.
your fingertips were just soldiers following orders.
you left my body a well-worked battlefield,
too ragged for future troops.

ps i still have your toothbrush.

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