Recovery

I'm beneath a sheet
I do not recognize, do not
remember slithering below
this cold layer bearing
the position of my knees and hip bone.
This cover feels more naked than skinny dipping -
as if we were in water now,
I'd feel safe beneath a river's
distortion Picasso's legs
would help to deflect,
fracture the strength of your gaze
go away.
I think I'd like to leave.

The light switch flicked off, dark
and cat-like I moved
to that warm place, and nudged
up against the arm pit
closer to the space between
your chin and collar bone -
like a cushion held fast
by the web of a wooden basket -
I settle against your face.
And I mean I liked your kisses,
but it was your fingers
against that curve of my belly
that felt the opposite of local anesthetic -
non-specific, wide reaching tingling
from one nail or thumb print
"this won't hurt," didn't.

My twist away is involuntary,
a runner's twitch when sleep's
mechanisms fail
and a leg comes loose -
a mind-movement exposing new
angles beneath the cotton and then,
it's skin as I dress,
but your closed eyes,
shut out embarrassment,
refuse to admit that happened
in this room. Invisible
I'm safe again,
beyond your eyes capacity.
You can't render me focused this morning.