The Gathering by Yvette Wielhouwer Managan

We gather under moonbeams and threadbare quilts while clouds break and hearts mend, our ying-yanged limbs and torsos tangled east west, hair coiled under bends, through lips swollen and blistered from passion and use. We remember tomorrows and yesterdays, dawn’s garish golds, sunset’s blood-oranged purples. Run fingertips down spines, over palms. Sharp intakes of breath, a sigh and exhalation. We take turns, turn around and spoon, nipples rise against your back, the length of me folded round your tight form, turn again, this dance of revolution. You question mark behind me, I warren in surrounding arms. Cup tight these breasts, mine, yours for now, then gather in and rest.

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