A woman dividing her thighs, pushing with all her power
the comfort of arms, first burst of light.
Scent of dill wafting through a yard,
the tickle of a blade of tall grass,
a place I visit, my mother calls home.
Pumping water from a spigot in the park,
licking raindrops off the patio door.
Buck teeth, raisins for tits,
the penance of scrubbing with oatmeal soap.
The clarity of my harpsichord on a humid day
articulating the counterpoint dancing through a fugue.
The rough of your beard scraping
the gentle of my back.
Madame Butterfly’s soaring soprano
never making you wait..
A Door County sunset
eclipsing Gil’s Rock Harbor.
sloping through a trajectory,
color pops—hurling splats of paint across dull of white.
a stroll in the park.
Marilee Pritchard has lived in the Chicago area all her life.
She has dual degrees in English and Nursing and worked a boring government job by day, so she could write poetry at night. Currently, she has 2 poems coming out in After Hours this summer.