Sleeping Hot
by Loretta Diane Walker

My modesty is a mare
galloping across moist sheets.
Heat and water pour from my pores
as though the bed is a trough.
My hands move like wild hooves
kicking off nightcap, T-shirt, pajama bottoms
and all things cotton.
My bare body hugs the headboard,
hoping the cool oak will chill my hot flesh.
I remember rain for the morning.
I want it to do a ballet over my body
like a masseuse’s fingers
kneading knots and stretching muscles.
Or gracefully bathe me with its wet beauty
like a hula dancer’s hypnotic hips
and artful hands writing the message
of her ancestors.

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