The pretense of sleep gives way to trusting slumber
under a cloud of black, a grey wall, that low, dun
wreck of a ceiling. The rise of her hip makes my breath catch.
It squares, slopes to the fall of rounded buttock.
Her legs are positioned to ease the pain of knee on knee
Like an expectant mother. Such inviolate privacy.
The brush licks sacral shadows, private hollows,
her rough and callused heels. Still she sleeps,
a monument in milk and twilight, flesh and stone,
chalk and ink, ash and linen.
Karen G. Berry
Karen G. Berry is a writer who lives and works in Portland, Oregon. Her poetry has appeared in Goblin Fruit, Prairie Poetry, Fireweed, Dream Journal, Napalm and Novocaine, and numerous themed print anthologies. She's the author of one novel and co-author of another. She gave up telling lies for telling stories in her early twenties and has never regretted the choice. She blogs at https://karengberry.mywriting.network/
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