POETRY
By Tamara Kreutz
When my hand finally braves the wilderness
between my legs, I find its oasis gone
—dry, a desert, and despite the distant thundering
inside me, no rain will fall upon this dry earth.
Our daughter has sucked me to depletion,
but you ask my body to satiate yours.
Six-week postpartum checkup—doctor says
—I’m good to go, but I tell you he said two more weeks.
When the void within me finally opens to you,
your thrust impales me—so you pull out.
—I feel only a slug’s ooze
over dry, lichened rock,
when your tongue travels the valley between my legs
for the first time since my body broke apart.
I’m a graveyard of buried orgasms
—haunted by ghosts of desire.
Months after her birth, I finally come. Breasts throb
in the vice of oxytocin. Milk rains down upon your face.
—The baby wakes before you’re done,
drives an eight pound wedge between us—
——she who is our love incarnate.
Photo by Maru Lombardo.
This story originally appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 19. Support local booksellers and independent publishers by ordering a print copy of the magazine.