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December 2005, vol 1 no 3

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Allen McGill

Distant Places

the rustle
of paper fans
summer sermon

She's near. I know without even seeing her. I sense her closeness as she sits in the pew behind me ... her subtle perfume fills my consciousness, thoughts, concentration. Warmth infuses my body; I am as sensate to her presence as if she were enfolded in my arms. I ease my eyes closed to blot out the minister's turgid drone. My surroundings dissolve ...

... we're standing on a high cliff overlooking the sea—trade winds caress our skin, waves crash on the rocks below: wild, savage, untamed. I run my tongue along the hollow beneath her earlobe—the smell of her auburn hair, the tautness of her waist as I draw her to me. Her arms encircle me, pull me tightly to her breasts ... her fingers play in the hair at the nape of my neck. The heat of our bodies pressed together, undulating—electrically charged kisses, frantic with need ...

"Daddy," a voice whispers—a jab in my side—"we're supposed to stand up now."

I peer around. "Er, no, son, Daddy is just going to sit here for a while."

sun flares
begin to wane—
ebb tide

(previously published in Yellow Moon)

 

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