The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Jesse Keegan

WATER STRIDER MAN

Words gush on your tongue.
You budge the valve and a few drops drip.
Liquid stars flicker on her lips.
You’d take a few quick hot sips.

You’d take care not to swallow too fast.
Don’t stare at that,
such tight skin in black jeans.
Have round sighs for her brown eyes.
Keep those in a safe beneath the bed.

So, you dream about the dance,
when you both were strung by beats,
sliding your hands along her waist,
over curvy zebra stripes.

You were free to hold her,
and you could move as if to kiss.
Inside, there’s always been the sound of cuffs against the wrist.
On the outside, they’ll come to turn the music down.

Every rock, twist and bounce,
you guide to the furthest decimal out.
You hover on her surface,
with a water strider’s purpose.

You can see it in her face,
the wishing well;
you see the smiling wild place, in flashing lights.

Then the flashlight knocks the pane.
Blue clothes and silver shields slice the night in half.
You are divided.

You didn’t penetrate but tickled across.
Your ripples made waves.
She says she wants to dance with you again.

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