when she walks,
her twisting hips, a pestle,
grind a secret
between her thighs.
how must that feel—
her face pressed to the sun,
a flower reaching;
her skin washed in satin waves of air;
her spirit tickled long and slow;
the crash of cymbals
on the pavement.
how does that feel?
like the still between tremors,
like breathing color,
like the order of the universe.
[This post was included in the October 2012 edition of the Third Sunday Blog Carnival.]
© Sweepy Jean and Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World, 2012