With no snappy top, spigot, or pump,
her Jergens bottle, wide-mouthed, glass-hipped,
might be too generous at her tip and shake,
give her far more lotion than she
could possibly be beautiful in,
even counting neck and elbows.
She'd bid me, stuck in the doorway,
""Come. Give me your hands.""

I'd spring forward, lay palms to hers,
thrilled at this invitation to high fives.
Then she'd coat me with her excess,
first slathering on the glamour milk,
now feeling of my hands like fine fabrics,
now massaging, squeezing,
me knowing to stay utterly limp,
and finally, trolling each finger
as my giggles rose no-holds-barred
from this daring grown-up wetness. 

Our lovely handwrestling complete,
and fresh out of her emergency,
all almond-scented and smooth
I'd stand alone again.

This poem first appeared in Artword Quarterly (Fall, 1998).
Used here with the author's permission.