women. writers.

Poetry: "Tocarla" by Meagan Kimberly

He picks her up

in both hands;

sits her in his lap.

Her curved

frame fits his

thigh like

it was molded

that way.

He cradles

her to his chest

& passes a hand

slowly over

her smooth form,

letting her cool

surface warm up under his touch.

He moves his fingers to her

spine and

gently begins

to press down,

starting at the top

and nimbly works

his way down.

It’s slow at first

but soon picks up

speed and he smiles

as her deep alto moans turn into

a frenzied soprano. Meanwhile, his other

hand strokes at her center where the hollow

becomes full with the sound of her shouting

voice. Back & forth his fingers go, shifting & making

her emit a new note each time. Sometimes it’s a full

bright melody, like the kind you hear on the radio

Sometimes it’s a darker chord that echoes only

on a primal level & can only be performed

by a skilled hand with unabashed passion.

Just as their song comes to its peak, he

throws back his head, eyes closed &

mouth agape, pure ecstasy as he freezes

for a moment & lets her cry ring out

before bringing their song to a close

with a final ritarded progression

of fingers moving

back up her spine.
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