Kristin Bock
Face down on the bed
she entered me, a flood
of heat through my folds,
the slip and grip of skin
and all my hollows filling
with fingers, breasts, hips.
Such pleasure as she pressed
each button into place. The air
rushing out of me. Our bodies
bound, restrained. One.
I admitted a girl—
by her breath, her presence.
And now her absence—like wind
through the open window—
has its way with me.
From here, I can see
gravestones leaning
under a yellow moon—
They resemble the knees of the dead,
pushed up through dirt, parted
for the coming rain.