The Stacks

hard wood shelves poke into my
breasts, stomach, thighs
sweet hot breath tickles the exposed skin of my neck
nails dig into my fragile wrists.
musty scent of yellowed pages
(abandoned tomes covered in dust)
mingling with our arousal, awakening the dead
long forgotten authors finding inspiration
in whispered words of devotion
I want her small hand to cup my swollen breast
her painted lips press against my pulse
to taste the sweat that lingers there.
I need more of her
fingers to slide beneath polyester into white cotton
to ease my throbbing-painful emptiness.
my tongue darts out to wet my lips and I sigh at the taste-
the lingering flavor of woman.

©2005 by Jen Stickles

                                                                                                                                                                                               

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Jen Stickles lives in a small town in New York, where she works as a library clerk in the local library while completing her undergraduate degree. She has had poems published in Zygote in My Coffee.