Polka Dots

She wore that dress, wore it well.

It warmed her breasts, ribs, and shoulder blades,

held her soft.  She bunched it up to her small nose,

while nestled in my lap.  The dark didn’t touch us,

not then, so we took a little of its bright, cupped

between clammy hands, among the Klieg lights,

to a hotel room with champagne on ice.  My lips

broke open.  My blood feather twisted.  She made

delicate passes over skin lightly kissed.  She pressed

part of a promise down, lower, tucked into the echo

of my chest.  It could have been easily lost in the

bed sheets, but wasn’t.  I hold it now.  I hold it

as I write and remember that dress:  how she

wore it, how she took it off.  I bunched it

to my face, and breathed in all that promise.

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