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A Certain Gravity
He cups the weight of her small breasts,
cradles them with reverential hands,
weighs the balance of gravity,
the pressure of pleasure.
He wonders about this passion
for the petite and elfin,
for the Hellenic perfection of rose and plum,
then recalls his mother,
the push of her tenderness
as she held his face in both her palms
as if he were the substance of her soul.
Now he holds this beautiful woman
bewildered by an artless wonder,
speechless, yet his mouth full
of a heaviness, a sufficiency now released
as the fecundity of rainclouds.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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