Two Short Poems About Fingering

By Laura Grace

(1)

Lying flat in the warm mud,
sleeves rolled to the elbow,
pushing your fingers through the water,
feeling its slight velvety resist,
the waterweed dark, and then – oh! –
the fish, cold and slick in your palm,
and slippery, like soap in the bath.
You feel its muscles tighten to attention,
and gently, delicately, your fingertips
brush its taut speckled belly.
Teasing and slightly hesitant,
you stroke it carefully, feel its shiver
and swoon, and then – quick! –
you fling it out, far, its mouth gaping,
onto the mud and the glazed stones, gasping,
stunned, it shudders and writhes.

(2)

Your fingers reach inside me like a conjurer
groping for a soft white rabbit
that twitches and quivers at your touch,
and then you brandish it, expertly,
dazed and trembling, the climactic ta-da!

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