I'm learning to be touched,
to allow him across
my no-woman's land
between sex and nothing.
On a bed of blankets and down,
I lie breathing.
With his fingers,
he molds my body like clay,
kneading the stiffness.
With his tongue,
he traces my vulva,
his lips on my lips on lips.
Stop. I'm afraid.
He rests his head on my thigh
while I find
my breath again.
Looking up
from between my legs,
he says, they're like constellations;
these five moles make a star.
On the galaxy of my stomach,
he traces the invisible threads
between them
connecting me with myself again.
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