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Meghan E. Stacy

Tutearme

If you were to transgress the soundless boundaries
of our conversational distance,
those familiar

but not quite informal, your face so close
that my eyes strain to remain focused
upon your features, intimately eclipsed by my hair,

shrouding us in a sunlit, flaxen tent
while your fingers nudge and entice
the place beneath my arm,
milky and delicate, above the wrist,

and the tone of your voice alters
almost imperceptibly,
flutters like the dainty wings
of sparrows behind my breastbone;

if you were to enter unbidden,
bisect the translucent aura of comfortable space,
I might pardon your blunder.