Mottephobia - 16/7/19

The knuckles that graze
the border between back and side
feel heavy as a punch; the fingers
that wrap mine, unreachable beside
the hands that reach behind,
cupped lovingly at the neck -
fingers twisting, trapping
the hair at the nape.
Rock,
or be still.
Let the waves of remembering
wash,
unstoppable as the tide,
until it’s done again and I can
wash
again;
be clean again
until it takes me again.
My body, my baby,
lichened and drifting; rotting
in a swamp of my own making.
I remember again,
and the moths descend
to feed.