where the writers are
new poem




I am awake; faint the scent of Old Spice
lingers from my lucid dream.
A long moment of tranquility gives way
to realization, as I feel his hand
move up the curve of my waist to cup
a breast I know still belongs to you.

I want to stretch my hand to the horizon,
cup the round melt of early morning sun,
and squeeze it to soft, safe darkness
where there is no guilt or need for redemption;
only the touch of you,
glad in the now beside me.

Shirley Alexander