White Wool

        

An empty warehouse, he sits close to me, dripping.

I want to sink my mouth into back.
He sits with me. 

He sits at a bench cutting slabs of wood. 

Chips pepper my hair.
Why is T. in both places?
Am I not enough?

He whispers: You have to tie those up.

Two tiny strings, like small white snakes, float off the front of my sweater into the room.

I say: Can't I leave them as they are?
He says: It will be better if you do.
Reaching down, his breath pressing on me,
my tongue coils.
He gingerly ties the slivers of wool,
fingers moving like my grandmother's needle,
making two perfect white bows.