In the daylight, under the open glare
of the unshaded bulb in your apartment,

I straddle your lap. It is hot for February.
Down to tank top and bare feet you brush

your hand against my forearms, shoulders,
chest. Despite desire, I am a stone statue

in the garden. The only times we’ve come
to this place is under the cloak of night—

oh inscrutable night I bloom under
without pause, without question, confident

in my invisibility. You reach with cupped hand
to a breast as if to hold water. You ask
if you could see me. I am a small sip falling

DéLana R. A. Dameron, “No Longer Ashamed”