Poems

Pet Rock

She is in bed covered by blankets and sheets,
door closed,
light out.

In her palm rests a heavy rock, smooth
and even shiny.
She slips the rock
onto her stomach
and pushes it down,
down.
Down under her
long underwear
and under her
underwear
over the
hair.

The salt from the sea
on the rock
mingles with her own salt
and it leaves her feeling
calm.

She sets the wet rock
on the night stand to dry,
and sleeps.

The next day, after classes,
she brings her study partner home.

He sits on the edge of her bed
removes his coat,
puts his books down.

She hangs her coat up while he talks.
He picks up the rock
on her night stand
and touches its smooth surface.

"Nice rock."
"Oh," she says
and puts up her hand protectively
but stops,
uncertain how to proceed.

"Looks salty,
get it from the beach?"
he asks.

"Yes," she answers, she did,
and takes a step forward
hand out, again.

"I like to lick the salt
from beach rocks," he says,
"don't you?"
"Oh," she says
again, reaching for the rock
as he lifts it to his mouth.

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Transmutational Drift

On the edge of a dream
I forget you are a man.
Your thigh and hip
become a curve of a woman.

And my hand, straying,
finds only the soft hair
low on your belly.

©2005 by Timalyne Frazier

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Timalyne Frazier currently lives in Vermont with her husband, two daughters, and three cats. She graduated from Marlboro College with a BA in Literature and Creative Writing; her thesis title was "Sex as a Literary Device." She has published and won awards with her fiction, and her poetry has also appeared in Nantucket Magazine.