A tower you call it.
But I call it the thing of me like
the twisty part of a hanger
from which my breasts
and body hang,
a favorite well-worn garment.
A stiff thing you name it
and unrelenting, and I name
it the same. I am the rock,
you are the hard place,
and the only thing standing
between us is
The bareness of it all;
the skin of you hand
on my neck, our names
on each other’s lips, but
rounder and fuller, as if
we take more time in
shaping each breath.
The curves between
my head and shoulders are
ready-made resting places
for your hands, the hidden
dips between my vertebrae
are only for thumbs, and
my clavicles make a padded
cradle for your fingertips.
Covered in shields you
say and I say thinly covered
in the sweat of the day,
a barely visible sheen.
There the kitchen of my neck
invites your lips to leave
a mark and invites your
breath to erase it.
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