REBIRTH IN ROOM 406
When you are angular and dry, you forget
the feel of womanhood. Before you,
I reached blindly into the mouths of men to reclaim
the sense of roundness, of lust with a certain
delicacy, but I left them even sharper.
It was the stillness of the hotel air, the muffled
sound of the television through the wall, the knowledge
we would be heard. It was the way you dragged
your unlined fingers over the chin of your hip in red
lace, the tenderness in your opening
as I gently closed around you, the ceiling's reflection
of the relief in your eyes as years of buried
selves escaped through your forcefully praying
mouth. Inside your cries, we remembered ourselves.
Memory, like womanhood, is a loud, wet thing.
Krista Cox can be found in South Bend, Indiana, where she lives with two precious patience-testers (children) and works with three of them (lawyers). Her poetry has recently appeared in Words Dance, scissors & spackle, and Melancholy Hyperbole, among other places in print and online. Her OKCupid profile is a work of creative literary genius.