[audioplayer file=”https://admin.rattle.com/audio/FancherTonight.mp3″]
his voice dark urgency, like when we were attached.
I let him grip my hips, slow dance me back to that lust,
to the parking lot, his car,
my tube top a trophy in one hand,
a bottle of Southern Comfort in his other.
He pours that sweet Joplin down my throat,
guides my hand between his legs.
Drives
to the Malibu motel with ocean views,
vibrating beds, and once more, our delicious thrashing,
complimentary KY where the Gideon should be,
the insomniac waves rocking us long before my marriage,
and now after.
When I ask him which part of me he loves best,
J. answers: What’s missing,
tonguing the place where my nipple had been.
He doesn’t mind the mastectomy scar,
the one my husband can’t bring himself to touch.