Cloud Voyeurism – A poem.

The sheets cling to her curves, like
a toddler clinging to her mother,
afraid of leaving the comfort of stuffed animals
and cartoons for the terror of making
real friends, and learning what happens
when she has two apples and Johnny snatches
one. Makes her cry for mommy. The fabric
pulls taut against her, showing pale peach beneath
its white, where her skin threatens to fade
through and escape. Her breathing is captured,
breasts rising and falling like rolling
waves lapping at my feet. I can imagine
the sand feels pleasant spilling between
my toes, like she spills from the sheets.
Her legs escape, snaking over the bed
and sinking feet into the plush, white carpet.
For a moment, the sun presses through
the window, and she is golden
in the space between the sheets struggling
to contain her.


Fury – A poem.

Waves try to steal her.
Crash into rocks and spray,
blue fingers twist and knurl.
Try to catch red hair.

Her skin is crisp—
salt baked by the sun.
But her eyes do not look
at Poseidon’s rage.
She drops her robe and steps,
naked, into the sea.

the ocean cradles


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