Winter
Nights
by
John Milbury-Steen
In
winter we are
in those fronts
that bring
stratus
that is languorous
as cats
on
that horizon bed.
In bed we sing
in
purrs against
each other and
we linger
within
each other's heat
eight hours long
in level sex,
and not the climb
to bang.
The
smoke detector
on the ceiling
sniffs
something
subliminal but
can't tell if
our
bodies might be
burning in the
buff
under
the covers, making
the room unsafe.
Still
we embrace and
cannot get enough
without combustion
that would set
it off.
The
motion detector,
which cannot refrain
from
watching the motion
of a man and woman,
seeing
our bodies interlocked
as one,
expects
that old familiar
up and down,
peeps,
but can't distinguish
breathing from
a subtle, never
coming sexual
drone.
The
lie detector,
looking hard for
sweat,
its
sensors in a place
that may get hot,
interrogates
each body on the
spot,
"Are
you two currently
doing it or not?"
and
reads the negative
as needles rest,
as cuddling tricks
the lie detector
test.
©
2007 by John Milbury-Steen
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