bottling the wind

after an orgasm she moves so slightly,
almost imperceptably, as though swaying
to the rhythm of some soft inner breeze;
lying in the attitude of a burn victim,
knees apart, head thrust back,
forearms angling up from the sheets;
hands lightly clenched as though holding
on to something, keeping some light
or fragile thing within as long as
she can before it blows away.

© 1999 by
michael mcneilley