by Crystal Folz

Pleasure, a thought, then the slow drape of my leg over his belly. In the morning, physical pleasure isn't misused or attached to emotions charged by time, but passes lazily between us. We work in the garden throughout the afternoon. Side by side, we pull weeds and pinch herbs. We speak of bills or the kids. Because of love, because of time, we spend the rest of the day holding the morning under our tongues.


Crystal Folz lives in rural Indiana with her husband and two sons. Her work has recently appeared in The Guild of Outsider Writers and Lit Up Magazine. She blogs here.