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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.

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