Fingers

Fingers

Clad in but your black,
silk kimono, you sit
on the sofa's edge as I
sit on the floor, facing you.
I slide your feet apart
a few inches, and,
with my right index finger,


trace the blue, pulsing veins
of your left foot.
As my finger
eases across your ankle
to your Achilles tendon
and starts its treacherous
journey up your calf

and around your knee
to your inner thigh,
you position on my scalp,
for imminent pressing,
your long, tapered nails
lacquered with the color
of crushed cherries.

Larry D. Thomas

Posted over on Black Cat Poems
from Eros (Slow Trains)