Cream Puff Woman
She leads a double life in the city, visiting her gingerbread man.
Wearing skirts well above her nicked calves and fat thighs, pale
and creamy, a promise of peachy smells, tart delights. Maybe
a birthmark or mole on one leg, the only time she risks
exposing imperfection. Even her yelps in the night, miss
the mark, too low, too off-key, not the octaves of warblers.
At night, their voices bottled in the room, no hope of reply, outside.
His tin foil wrapped sighs. Her cellophane torn echoes. Her
city girl cry for unselfish pasture. Or a prospector's boon
of hills. She will recall, in the middle of the day, in the classroom,
wiping chalk dust from her fingers, how his fingers, like sugar cubes,
dissolved inside her. She will self-consciously forget how she awoke
and found herself alone.
©2007 by Kyle Hemmings