Going Native

After Margaret Mead*

She spread her blouse open
as if she were a bloom for plucking.

Hair ruffled, glasses askew
they kissed slowly.

Like anthropologists observing
and documenting every note, expression,

they turned to each other, compared
findings, looked for connections

in familiar skin, searched
every line and crease for clues.

Tiring of the restraint
blowing in from the West

she inhaled salty Samoan air,
exhaled just east of an eyebrow,

then pulled him closer for a deep sniff
along the side of his neck.

He responded,
sinking fingers into her wavy curls

and tugging down until
he could suck her ear.

Awakening all six senses,
they abandoned the words.

by Pamela Sinicrope

Comments (2)

Very nice, the play on words plucking with such class, I was caught off guard :)
Pamela, such a lovely write...10+++