a hand of sunlight
reaches across the kitchen counter
where I stand in late morning and rests
on the back of my bare neck, warm as a body, breath.
It makes me raise my hands to cup my breasts, to ready them,
the hands, the breasts, for holding. There is a leg of white sun flung across
the backs of my knees, thin skin, warms fast, I am held   lightly   as we peel a gleaming egg. 

 

—Jenna Rozelle

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