by Rob Lightner
photograph by Missy Loewe
His love is a miraculous network. My body spins inside it; he has marked my space with points of pale red light connected with forceful movements. I know now what I had forgotten -- my phantom pains are real again. Exoskeletal strength is our shared legacy, held over from distant cousins and returned to us. But we learn from experience, shoving over the old dirt and laying flat on pine boards to make love quietly under the clouds.
I have shown him my insides, but he is shy, frowning and looking away, when I move to inspect his. I am seductive and he will not choose to resist much longer. The sky is gray-blue and textured while we watch the reflections of our love in a nearby pond. He is spinning now, slowly but with increasing speed. I imagine that his penis is a drill bit and laugh out loud, he smiles again. I touch his red lines with my fingers and draw his body closer to show him how my parts are accessible. I peer inside, just as he looks down into mine, but he springs away, twelve feet above me now.
Reminded that each has its time, I turn my body prone and wait for his return. Watching maple leaves falling, slowly. He lands on my buttocks like a whisper and kisses my skin with just his lips, at first. Our involuntary motion brings pleasure to the secret parts and then his colored spots mix with mine. It is autumn now and we were born yesterday.
Rob Lightner is a freelance writer living in San Francisco. He has been a scientist, a librarian, and a sex educator. He shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. (Note)