Listen to this poem by pressing the play button above.
A love poem.
The Soft Friction of Sliding Glass
On the living room carpet, after the prom,
she raises her pale arms in the light
coming in through the sliding glass door.
Understanding, amazed, he reaches down,
takes hold of the bottom of her sweatshirt,
and slides it up over her head.
For the first time, there is nothing between them
but air, skin and propriety.
He canâ€™t believe that this diminutive, angelic gift is his.
He leans over to kiss her,
but even more to feel her skin
and the rise and fall of her breath.
They slide to the floor, arms around each other,
mouths and hands and thighs and stomachs
searching for every inch of long-sought completion.
For all that there have been many moments of exploration,
long afternoons desperately quiet in her upstairs bedroom,
it is these few moments that he will remember most.
Sitting quietly on the couch many years later,
accompanied by the gentle rush of a fan in the next room,
he will close his eyes and once more
feel her under him,
his palms remembering the soft friction of her,
his body still responding, even now.