“Want some cocoa?” she asked him.
It’s the kind of thing naked people say.
He nodded.
She rose
and the sheet fell from her body
but her skin did not.
At the point, she realized
he was neither jackhammer nor feather,
her mouth broke out into the smile
her vagina could not.
He was not the stars
but nor was he one of those
bullying summer storms.
Handsome, no, not even her galloping eyes
would lie their way into that one.
But he was no monster.
Her fears were groundless.
This sex thing was a delight.
Sure he was heavy and sweaty,
but so was cocoa if you made it right


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Tau, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Abyss and Apex and Midwest Quarterly.

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