By Meghan McCullough

Volume XXXVI, Issue 2, November 1, 2013

The bristles of your freshly-
grown stubble (it is brown,
flecked gold – when I think
you aren’t looking, I watch
it shimmer in the dust-moted
shafts of sunlight that peek
in through your window)
graz the skin on my lips
that you kissed tender.

But it is your lips
that I am interested in;
they are the soft pink
of the young ballerina’s first
satin slipper; I want to live
by your kisses alone; I think,
to the infinitesimally smaller
human, they must make
for the most feathery pillows.