She never knew she wanted her earlobe
licked until your tongue traced
a line up her auricle, and you
took away the word No
from her with your breath,
excited and committed,
like the breeze that blows
just before the thunder
sounds up and over
the treetops, and you
realize the storm
that comes is
not always
the one you
needed.
Liz Martin moonlights as a post-modern, feminist housewife, quilting, knitting, and gardening to fill up the moments when she is not in danger of being buried under a landslide of freshman composition essays or reading poetry for Map Literary, a journal of contemporary writing and art. Her poetry has been published in Arsenic Lobster and is forthcoming from Eunoia Review.