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Scott Whitaker

SPRING. RAIN. DATE NIGHT.

So we decided to keep fucking and ignore the storm
with the windows crying like hurt flappers
as the wind blew the curtains back like lashes
and drops peppered our hot skin. Fresh spring
rolled out on the ends of your nipples
and hung on the ends of your hair.

So that it felt, and so it became,

that you were the wringing cloth twisted
into the hot mouth of a starving man,
the water speeding his lips and mouth,
his body clenching and thrusting to consume
what it needs most, your skin, your taste, your water.

In 2008 S. Whitaker was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in fiction. He has published two chapbooks of poetry and his work has appeared in dozens of journals.

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