Smooth plastic weight

hard in my arms –

Your formula of curves

demand my hold, and

mark the soft parts

that coat my bones.


I call you her not it,

and select thin knitwear

rendering your parts whole –

a still mirror:

math-measured equal,

I make you one.



fabric glides

catching smooth peaks

and sliding over seams.


My touch rough

as I fit my own arms up your sleeves

to crack your limbs in place –

easy as jigsaw pieces,

as outfits,

as my own dressing.


I lift the v of your legs

to a level over my fruit-bruise

of flesh, waves of hair, and sweat,

and look up to your face:

chin tilted and

nothing else.


© Lydia Allison 2014

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