BETWEEN MY BREASTS, MORE OF ME

by Liz McCall

1.
she crosses arms over her breasts as
I sit on the bed waiting – a space,
carved – still, my goosebump skin
shrinking from sunlight – she, flushed, saying,
Looking is not owning and neither is touching –
how can I feel you and keep myself coherent –
it is a shock to breathe, a diver coming
up for air – her arms uncross, solace
in unexplored places –

2.
there is space taken, particles and membranes
leaning over, a hand drifting to brow, wiping sweat –
there is a price for each finger, each
gently wrapped muscle, each minute
of my rapt attention –
each hair over your lip that you shave each week –
we don’t rhyme anymore –
leftover lines: I see a centipede crawl from
under a rock, I lose a sock in the dryer – but still believe
in mystery – your hands now, on hips,
backlit as I pull your robust spine
into mine, parse out vertebrae,
and return the spaces –

3.
I was never warm or consoled, in the place
for hands – she took a breath – wrapped
in blankets but still shivering, still holding onto hips –
trying to say something clever she lifted two fingers apart
chest high saying Look at this look at the mess you made –
she took a breath – I was never helpless or afraid –
as I reached to close the blinds – she parted two fingers she
took a breath – dripping – I was never asleep –
saying something clever – there is an ache behind my eyes,
a cloudy distance a vast nonjourney unmarred
by present – saying, might be – same finger trails
over thighs and I’m not placating I really want this –
farther out than seaweed –
she pressed two fingers saying Look at this – I took
a breath – I took her place in bed as dawn trickled
through closed curtains – waylaid, my body
stretched across blankets and her ghost eyes
lingering on the way I fall asleep

in your ear
monotype, drypoint, collage
Liz McCall