This is love, not geology

Starting on my lower lip
and spilling down
toward my ankles
you form a river
from the gloss of a
wet, blue marker

you travel upstream
with the marker between
your teeth
tracing tributaries
over my thighs
across sacral plexus

nerves slow-eroding 
my cutaneous layer
until we become
a lake.


Cream City Review | Spring 2010