Ice Cream

I lay nose pressed
to the cool cotton pillowcase,
his hands kneading
my tired cramped back.

I pull my mop of brown hair
(full and frizzy from unseasonal humidity)
over my silk-covered shoulder
to the pillow,
fanned out by my head.

My bare neck awaits
his piercing hands.
They stir the nerves of my back
like a wooden spoon through
simmering broth,
letting steam and pressure escape
into the hanging sage-smoke haze.

Out of this softly dense atmosphere
creep curling golden brown tendrils,
so shy against my heavy shoulder.

This means
he must be leaning in
closer to my back
than my dreamy eyelids had imagined.

His curls dangling hint
at the face behind me:
the expression I cannot see.

The soft unintentional
caress of those curls!

I doze off
my mouth parched,
dryly swallowing and
licking my sticky lips.

Then fall into dreams of
a wet, creamy ice cream cone.

My tongue glids over
the smooth hills and curves,
around and through the coolness.

I am quenched
in this dream
by melting sweetness.

Suddenly my nerves awaken
under my closed eyelids.
I am back in his bed
and his arms.

And it is his cool
melting lips that quench
my shriveling thirst.