When We Melt 
by Kathy Kubik © 2004

3 a.m.  joy ride
on an instrument without name.
You, the incisive stranger.

Fuzzy vodka fingertips lick
at smoke, thin sparks spit.

Bodies lock,
casual strain wears down,
wooden bones deprive pores.

Your hands warm,
you reach between my legs,
strain through
soft fleece cloud cover
like a scandalous poke through
a silk blouse.

Ease my body into the next plunge,
become one single nerve.
Kisses parachute
down.

A kiss can waver, wager,
change positions every half hour.

I shake, rattle.

Billow flowers, explodes,
dissolve, flash yellow.

We exhale smoke like dragons,
lounge in our loft-haven,
on a Chicago street,
el clacking above.

Then only the hiss of daybreak.