We should lie down,
stripped on the floor
of your father's study;
except for our little girl panties,
which we pull aside at the crotches
with deliberate fingers,
our tongues at search
in slow circles of motion-

because this is how we do it;
this is what he sees
when he closes his eyes
and plays at sleep,
behind us in his lazy-boy,
while we sit hip to hip,
lip to ear in front of laugh-in;
arms about our waists
like the oldest of friends:

our nipples like rocks
beneath his twitching lids.



�2005 by Tammy Turner