by Kathryn Maggetti
I always feel you before I’m fully awake.
You pull at my skin, molding it like clay on a facial mask,
always moving it to your liking.
You pull and prod in the never-ending search to find the magic arousal button.
Women are so complicated, you say
Men are so predictable, I think
I roll over, nerve endings barely aware of your pressure.
They don’t dance at your touch.
My soul is not parted, not lifted up over the bed in ethereal foreign ecstasy.
I open my eyes momentarily,
to see you nuzzling at my breasts, as a dog searches for a bone in the garden.
My petunias are wilted.
That boyish smile looks down at me across the expanse of my belly.
Against all impulses, I part my legs.
About the Author
Kathryn is a writer and former high school English teacher turned stay at home mom. She cares for her one-year-old daughter while making time for writing during naps, meals and the occasional TV session. She is currently working on a novel delving into the ever-complicated relationships between mothers and daughters. She resides in Dana Point, California with her husband.