It is neither your tongue nor thigh
For which I long
But your singsong sigh
It is the sweetness of milk
The bone whiteness
Under freckled sinew
The plumping of peaches
Pluck!
Not consummation
But the giggling, the slurps, the untied shoe
the hand fidgeting with the cabinet knob
a thumbprint on our white wall
The memory of it
the downiness of teeth
on the tree
solid-soft and dew-dappled
suspended in light and air-
I can’t get at you
Are you there when our children flutter their eyelids just before sleep?
Listen to the pit-less wind whoosh!
Fill me up.
