Non-Erotic PoetryBack 07/08Your back is not yet curved
like your father's. You stand tall
almost have a waist, buttocks
that ball out and beg
to be touched. I will
touch, eventually,
when I am tired
of drinking your skin
with my eyes,
when my cup of longing
splashes beyond the bench
mark of my lust. My fingertip
will begin at your neck, slowly
swirling downward, stopping
at each vertebrae, pausing
to memorise the bones, ending
at your coccyx. One fingertip.
Tantalizingly close.
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