b a r b a r a  f l e t c h e r: other poems


Perforations

His glances press against my back,
fingertips grip my skin, then release,
tickle like lashes fluttering shut.
Each finger exerts a different pressure
in search for the soft spots between bones
where the words burrow in.
His stares probe the obvious
openings and retract, misguided,
the weight of moisture on his line of sight
slides down me. I try to tug
his eyes upwards, drag sensitive pads
up along my soft corrugations
pausing between ridges. Patient

but he can only watch, can only touch
with his eyes, and part of me wants
to fling off this dress, have his eyes
rest on my hundred glowing perforations
but, yes, that would be too easy;
these burning holes are something
that fingers need to find.