Excerpt From Mind Without a Home

Your Inner Thigh

Your inner thigh sends bees up my spine. I pick up your stray sock, the smell of foot thick in white cotton raises my heart rate. The hairs on my arms stand up. I imagine moving into you, a wisp of finger traces the lip of your ear while the willow tree spills leaves, showering the moist earth at its base, the moist earth you reach for, your hand greeted by wetness.

            Men don’t strip like women, an arm bared shoulder expressed, pause before losing the shirt to breasts.

            For some men, it’s over the head in one motion, pants and underwear immediately follow with no slow zipper.

            I zip down for you through muscle to the bone and the soft places in my mind—you.