L C Vieira (Lisbon, Portugal)
It's six and you're asleep,
tired after a day of zipping through the jungle.
I kiss your back and taste the cool air against your freckled skin,
I count one, two, three - and stop at seventeen,
choosing instead to breathe in light soap and sweat
below the short hairs of your quiet neck.
Your shoulders rise and fall with each breath,
I kiss one silver twinkle on your head and marvel at your rest,
my thighs nestled behind yours,
holding the night, hoping it won't end.
(2005, slightly revised 2012)
Comments about this poem (Seventeen Freckles by L C Vieira )
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