Feeling It
Wedged between burgundy
and royal blue nylon panties
lay my husband’s sturdy white
cotton Jockeys folded hastily
by me, a Freudian slip, maybe,
egging me to step into each
roomy leg opening to feel
what he feels, thick cloth,
the secret pocket’s handy
practicality briefly erotic
as I discover how quickly
the exit facilitates entry,
the might of his many Y’s
flexed. But not yet sexed
enough, I searched the fridge
for something to add weight
– a beet, a baby carrot,
a Polskie Ogorki pickle?
So freighted, I strutted
in the kitchen clutching
my crotch, enrapt,
pickle juice stained,
in no-man’s land,
espousing
his place.
© Susanne Fletcher