She Asks for Conversation
by Kris McHaddad
She asks for conversation
as she whispers insistently
along the length of me.
Her hands flower between my thighs,
dance a rain dance
that pulls a bright and shining river
from the swollen sky of my stomach.
My mouth drinks
and puts quick breaths
back into the dark night air,
little silver o's,
shiny and round like mirror
or a not-too-quiet echo
of the breathless prayer we recite.
Even in the absence of her,
my skin flushes cherry and damp
at the memory of her kiss.
by Kris McHaddad
She asks for conversation
as she whispers insistently
along the length of me.
Her hands flower between my thighs,
dance a rain dance
that pulls a bright and shining river
from the swollen sky of my stomach.
My mouth drinks
and puts quick breaths
back into the dark night air,
little silver o's,
shiny and round like mirror
or a not-too-quiet echo
of the breathless prayer we recite.
Even in the absence of her,
my skin flushes cherry and damp
at the memory of her kiss.
Forty-Six
See how it stands
so stubbornly
on only one leg,
a delicately poised
flamingo of the palest pink,
a square having just now
climbed out of itself,
balancing its body
of straight lines
and sharp angles
an open container:
a wide-mouthed candy jar,
open hands,
an open heart.
And then, at its side,
the line beginning at no particular point,
moving down and around, circling in on itself,
one smooth continuous curve,
a frame for a mirror
of self-reflection,
a womb,
a fertile garden
bright with peonies.
Kris McHaddad lives in Leona Valley, California where she teaches the first grade.
Her poetry has been widely published.
See how it stands
so stubbornly
on only one leg,
a delicately poised
flamingo of the palest pink,
a square having just now
climbed out of itself,
balancing its body
of straight lines
and sharp angles
an open container:
a wide-mouthed candy jar,
open hands,
an open heart.
And then, at its side,
the line beginning at no particular point,
moving down and around, circling in on itself,
one smooth continuous curve,
a frame for a mirror
of self-reflection,
a womb,
a fertile garden
bright with peonies.
Kris McHaddad lives in Leona Valley, California where she teaches the first grade.
Her poetry has been widely published.
