2: Annie Hayter

love glut
 
you smell faintly of cucumber soap, love.
the scent is here, and there,
on the nape of your neck, soft of your belly,
turn of your wrists.
each nub, slip of your spine
maps a back, I know too well. now, I
touch, each vertebrae, with my mouth,
a quiet rehearsal, whisper words
beginning with x in your ear-
xylophone, xsturgy, xerox.
you turn, make a lowing kind of noise,
eyelids flickering, easing into a smile.
your feet are cold, feel the nudge of your toes, slotting
into mine.  you must have left the bed, earlier
 for them to be so cool, gently
as you always did, looking
over your shoulder, quiet so not
to wake me. perhaps you made some tea,
stood in the half light of the kitchen,
 chipped mug in your hand, lingering,
grey lino chill on the balls of your feet
then padded back to me, all slow and lovely,
pulled the blanket back, slide in, folded me
into you, wrap me lithe, in the curve of you, round
dew of your kisses, damp on my cheek,
trappings of your arms
a tender that I just-
I couldn’t account for.