by Katie Kemple

On a walk in the canyon, an underwire
spears the tender ravine of my foothills.
It’s scorched earth there, a burnt triangle
of peeling skin from our date at the beach, 
where I wore that long-sleeved bathing suit
and you pulled the front zipper down, said:
it looks good there, like that. No regrets.
Worth the burn of your gaze at middle age.
No one looking in the canyon now, I reach
into my shirt and pull the wire out, so like
the slim and flexible bone of a fish. I shove
its crescent grin into my pocket and let
my right breast wax full and free, under cover
in the late day sun. At night, I rub thick
shea butter into the burn, as the sky peels
open its black jacket of white-hot torches, 
and the Buck Moon’s full and unencumbered,
I dive into the deep blue sheets of our bed.