Nose pressed to pillow,
she breathes him in: her first man.
He smells of campfires after rain,
burnt toast, freshly dug peat.
Brushing the charcoal from her breasts,
she marvels at the sudden roar of piss –
black, no doubt, as molasses;
admires the boldness of his line
through the bathroom door:
a shorter pose,
so no time to go too badly wrong;
imagines their lives together--
what he saves on clothes
they’ll spend on materials:
erasers, A2 portfolios, paper;
arguments will erupt over the hairspray
- but I’ve run out of fixative, he’ll whine -
and his burnt-to-a-crisp meals
but the sex will be great
the indelible grey of a winter sky:
there are advantages, she realizes,
in technical limitations, her disregard
for (absolute) anatomical correctness.
Slipping back into bed with a sigh,
he arranges an implied thigh
along the length of hers.
Published in Purple Patch