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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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