Pools, Panties and Babysitters
Blue gingham two-piece drips thin streams of chlorinated water
from the gap between your legs.
Shocking white cheeks wink from the bottom edges before you dive in
with a resounding splash.
Laughter and rushing water create an indelible song.
In the powder room, the soft light illuminates
a neatly folded pile of clothes balancing on the vanity edge.
Heart racing, ignoring risk,
I gently knead the hopsack fabric of the green blouse
before carefully placing it to the side.
White, daintily laced bra ignored to reach between
the folds of blue jean shorts –
inhaling the mixture of perfume and earthiness from white cotton panties
graced with tiny blue flowers –
the clap of the back screen door startles, delicious risk of discovery
fusing a perpetual desire the day you swam in my pool.
There Was A Time
Sweltering night, a wickedly damp bed.
Air hangs like wet towels on a hook. Stinky dew.
On opposite sides, naked we cling in oceans of fluid.
There was a time, despite kindled skin,
after hours of feeding on sun, we splashed into the sweat -
riding it like a wave over the pain until our thirst was quenched.
Exposed genitals, melting puddles of stale candy,
no longer draw a hungry glance.
Sweet tooth extracted, craving no more.
C.W. Bigelow lives in the Charlotte, NC area. His fiction and poetry have most recently appeared in The View From Here, The Gloom Cupboard, The Scrambler, Indigo Rising, The Shine Journal, Litsnack, Sister Ignition and Full of Crow.