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Trying It On


"I feel so comfortable with you," she says just after we had made love, her hand lightly brushing the hair on my chest.

Comfortable? I try wearing the word. It's like my bathrobe that long ago should have been rag-bagged. Soft, yielding, warm, pleasant ... yet so full of holes. Or the overstuffed chair that Dad fell asleep in while watching curling on TV.

"Comfortable," I say. "Instead how about 'I feel like a baby bird about to make her first leap into space when I'm with you?'" Okay, you're not a young chick. Then how about, 'I feel like a matador dancing with a flame-snorting bull?' Or better yet, 'I love the tension I feel when you take off your biker boots revealing the cobra tattoo etched on your big toe nail?'"

Her hand is stroking that place just below my beltline, that uncomfortable zone where my stomach bulges more than I want it to, where her dinner rests so comfortably adding to the bulge.

Will her hand move that few inches further down into what I like to think of as the my wild man place? Or am I merely comfortable for her in that way too?

tattoo parlor
today I pass it

fall drizzle
a motorcycle catalogue arrives
in the mail

red bar

Ray Rasmussen, Frogpond, 33:1 2010; reprinted in Contemporary Haibun, 2011.


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