The First Move

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Honourable mention in the 1st Jackpine Sonnet Contest.

Between drinks he said, she was light as a wafer:
he could take her in his mouth. But this morning
her weight has pushed the air from his lungs, and he lies
beneath her, perfectly still—a codling moth
pinned to a board. Her skull bones grind together
like tectonic plates, threatening a quake
in her stomach. Or is it persistent smoke
that makes her feel ill? Dregs of musky perfume
and day-old deodorant trapped in armpits.
The sweat from skin against skin is insufferable,
their pores still ooze vodka. Someone has farted,
but there’s no dog to blame. Both pretending
to be asleep, neither one sure who should make
the first move, but they’re waiting for it.