Greg Beatty Crossing the Bricks
Hang things from my chest
she said lifting her arms to offer
her sweaty hollow up.
I looked away, to a pattern
of not quite regular bricks,
sending my seed along the cracks
in golden spurts from Martian eyes.
My own. I'll hang kisses
from your chest, I longed,
imaging the ready suck of
sweat through the laundered
t-shirt. I'll hang handholds.
But hands closed to paw formation
to, clumsy, thump at public shoulders,
urge her home to husband's hands.
Come on I said we'll be late.
She dropped her arms; an exhalation
then carefully crossed the bricks to
their furthest edge, and said good-bye.