Hearts of Palms Poem by Susan McMaster

Her palms are hungry. Oh, other parts too,
but in the night, now he's gone, and even the cat
finds elsewhere to sleep, it's her palms that ache
for the feel of his shoulder, right there in the centre
of her hand, where the bones come together,
pillow, spark at a careless touch. The heart
she calls it, much more real to her than the erratic
muscle that lodges over her stomach,
stutters when she climbs the stairs too fast,
burns and knocks, a complaining roomer
always ready to whine.


In the rain-pattered night
she rubs palms against the sheet -
his hip - his shoulder -
how they fit as he rolls
onto his side, as she smooths
her hand down a muscled arm,
slips it over his chest,
circles, presses
till the nipple hardens,
tucks knees against thighs,
silky fur rubbing
as she strokes further down,
strokes the curl of hair
under the slow ribs,
down the feathered belly,
cups a soft rise.


In the flat, empty bed, she covers her mouth,
brings a tongue into that crease.


Cups her heart.
Licks it dry.