Irene Duyen

Building He pulls a leg from the river, another foot with silver toe rings, another knee to pinch in the bumping bed with the door closed. In those afternoons, those hot afternoons with soft bread rising, sun splits my thighs through thin dresses when I walk. Now an arm to hold him, to keep him when the others are sold, still cold from the water, laid on the grass in pairs. Now I can wave, knead the bread into shapes to please him, touch the skin on the inside of his elbow when he sleeps. The torso turns, his hands around the waist, he brushes leaves from the hips, twigs from the breasts, silt from the neck. I rub against him, run a curve across his chest, move like a swimming snake. He presses his face to twin loaves. He pulls out the head by the hair, expression erased by rocks, unshaped as the surface of the river; he forms the lips to a smile.

Copyright © 1999 Irene Duyen All Rights Reserved