low sun a smear of apricot jam I could lick
off my thumb, porch boards warm
beneath my shoe-loosed feet—
how I could succumb to sleep—
my neck atilt on the fulcrum of this slat-
backed chair, his fingers on my temples
soaping my hair, lather astringent
with juniper and pine or else that’s
the brush of his breath lush with gin—
day overlaid now with evening’s husk
and he rinses from the pitcher, soaking
my shirt, a gush like water
from a birth sack breaking weeping down
my leg, seeping across the sunset
of nasturtiums by the steps—
I twist a towel around my head, secured
at the nape, body rising toward his touch
like steam as
a cricket cracks the twilight hush—
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 26, Issue 1.
Terry Hall Bodine is a graduate of the College of William & Mary in Virginia. Recent publication credits include Plainsongs, Broad River Review, SANGAM, and Litmosphere. Terry lives in Lynchburg with her husband, Bill, and works with academic advising at the University of Lynchburg.
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