Poetry
Charley Allen
Connection
I. daughter
Long hair still wet
and steaming from the hot bath,
she laid me down
on cold linoleum,
traced every inch
of my skin
with one hand,
the other brushing back
my cooling hair.
Rough thumb wiping off tears,
maternal coos in her throat quieting and
comforting me,
as her left hand frantically moved
inside and out
as if searching
for something
she had
long ago
lost.
II. lover
Years later,
snow falling outside
in drifts,
and we moved together
building a fire of kisses
to keep warm.
I traced her curves,
left whisper kisses
and promises of forever
on the slope of her neck,
the hollow of her collarbone
before begging
to pay homage
at the altar of her
milky white
thighs.
She refused and
distracted me
with a fluttering
touch
of her own.
Later,
she did not understand
why
I cried.
III. aunt
I went home for Christmas,
played games with my nephew--
the same age as I
when I first remember
the feel of the chill of the
bathroom floor.
Ice against my spine,
and his grandmother's fingers
like fire,
her eyes--
wild and rabid.
And I watched him,
and saw
a haunted look in his
eye
that matched mine
in the decades I
hid behind
long hair, but
in a moment,
it was gone,
and I cannot
fear for
him.
My nephew
is a boy,
he has nothing
for her
to take.
This poem appeared in Notations literary magazine, Murray State
University, 2004.
