G. C. Jeffers

. . .like the fluffy stuffed chair
embracing my frame and embellishing
the cushion of my lower accoutrements
in padded rest and upholstered utopia

. . .like the mouth of some sunset
colored cavern which explores
the patterned play of failing
light on soft shadow

. . .like the press of two
human chests against each other
expand contract expand contract
and the rhythm of a swiftly beating heart

. . .like the scent of Mom’s chili
penetrating windows and doors
until the entire household
stops and gathers in the smell

. . .like a cat suddenly sending her
claws into a bare human arm
drawing droplets of blood and an intake
of breath that remind us that we are real