Night | Mary Dorcey

I remember your neck, its strength
and the sweetness of the skin at your throat.
I remember your hair, long, in our way
drawing it back from my mouth.
How my hands slid the low plain of your back
thrown by the sudden flaunt of your loins.
I remember your voice, the first low break
and at last the long flight
losing us to darkness.
And your lips along my shoulder,
more sure, even than I had imagined –
how I guarded their track.
I ask you then what am I to do with all these
memories
heavy and full?
Hold them, quiet, between my two hands,
as I would if I could again
your hard breasts?

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