by Rhonda Davis
A dry heat grew under
the creases of my breasts where
sweat lied dormant, waiting to be
cooled.
I used to be moist in
other places.
I can touch it and it jumps sometimes
but not a single sip escapes like the river
it once was. There is a still breeze
that sits upon its polar cap.
No ships enter the peninsula, there are no waves.
Imagination is the fluid’s screwdriver
forcing it into the curves of dry woodchips
making my hips struggle to find an
oasis.
An oasis of moist places.
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