Saturday
by K.M.A. Sullivan
In the morning you move your tongue over me
like I'm a linen canvas
and you work in oils.
Cadmium Red and Cerulean Blue take days to dry.
My body is a county fair.
You're a regular at all the two and four ticket booths.
(shoot the duck, spin the tea cup,
kiss the middle-aged wife)
Pink cotton candy melts in your mouth. I appreciate the tractor pull.
You're a zombie and I'm the last fresh ankle.
We watch Wolverine on DVD.
You tell me I could pretend to make love to him.
I say, baby, if I had sex with Hugh Jackman
I'd have to imagine your fingers,
your mouth, your eyes, to come.
You discover new ways to help me
wash my hair, take a nap,
brush my teeth at the bathroom sink
I wonder out loud if we've mapped all our caves,
uncovered all the radiant creatures that dwell in the dark.
There's only one way to find out, you say
You strap on your headlamp,
pack chicken salad sandwiches,
and go spelunking for the rest of the afternoon.
K.M.A. Sullivan is an MFA candidate at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg, Virginia where she lives with her husband and four of their five children. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in PANK, Controlled Burn, NOO Journal, Pearl, Potomac Review, and elsewhere.