Taking a short break from chores to read poetry while merlot tinged silken peony petals ripened by age—unfurl, collapse, then fall away.
While dusting bookshelves, I stumbled across the following bookmarked poem:
by David Meuel
It’s the wetness I like.
The way your pores give birth to glittering salty beads
that sprout about your forehead
and run down your cheeks.
Tiny, clinging waterfalls.
The way their adhesive yields
as I unwrap you
each part of your blouse
peeling like sections of a moist tomato skin.
The way more beads grease our kissing bellies,
letting them slap and slide
like rapids on rocks in a river
pounding its path to the sea.