In the shower, washing
a tiny gasp
over my right breast.
All my imaginings flash through my
head like a sudden rain shower,
drenched in worry.
I ask him to see if he can
feel anything, can you see anything?
and facing each other, I lay back.
Like a bread maker, who may have
lost her ring—hidden somewhere
in the dough, he presses
And we both look at each other.
She keeps her earrings on during
sex—silver hoops that bang against her neck,
awkward and choreographed—
and her glasses—the color of
California sand—caught up on a March day
high in the air.
She tilts the blinds—right before,
“So I can see the sky”, she says.
And the neighbors—if they remember could be close
enough to glimpse
his back, his side
and from time to time,
a grin, or grimace, a soft look, sometimes puzzled, when she
reaches up to rub the furrow
in his brow.
D Larissa Peters just moved to Long Beach, California — in the middle of pandemic — after living on the East Coast for over 10 years ! Long Beach is only one of the many cities she has lived in the last 40 years. Her poems have appeared in Adelaide Magazine, The Plum Tree Tavern and has forthcoming pieces elsewhere.