242/365: This Must Be Like Lovers Do

This is morning.
Your mascara is smeared below each eye from last night's hot sleep.
You dreamt you had hair weighted by fragile twins
who threatened to shatter as they swung on long braids.
This means nothing.
You are awake now, smiling.
There is warm sun strung in bars across your breasts from the window
and a bright breeze dimpling the skin around puckered nipples.
You remember your body stretched in shallow August lake-water,
where currents brushed you with warm and then cool fingers
as your legs shifted and rose above the rippled sandbar.
You thought, then, before there had been lovers,
this must be like lovers do.
There is time for this second tasting now:
that scent of northern lakewater drying in sandy hair,
exposed pine roots peppery under shade-sweet moss,
and a thumping of feet stopped, soft through a towel,
a stranger inches away from these warm, closed eyes.


I am writing one poem every day in 2016, and I am using the hashtag #365poems to document my progress.