​Her palm is soft.
I feel her wedding band,
cool on my cheek,
as she cups my chin.
Holding me stone-still
our hearts pound
in sychronous rhythm.
Her warm bosom
against my back,
I hold my breath
as she drags
the straight razor
across my scalp.
I smell the
sandalwood oil
coming out of her pores
My eyes dart
across
the blue and white
tracking swallows
that skim the tops
of the cornstalks
trailing streamers
of silk.
When she finishes,
she kisses my
smooth pate
as she always does,
and I sigh
as I always will.

M. Zane McClellan

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