When I arrive at clavicle, humerus,
Acromion, the view is breath-taking,
A vista nothing like the map.
Still, after thirty-some years,
I am a fortuitous Norseman,
Longboat aground upon the shore;
I discover the northern-most
Pinnacle of your back.
Here, you could be Scotland
But just south of Ben Nevis,
More hummock than summit:
Your curiously arousing scapula.
I assumed my caresses were familiar
With your bones, every curve
Of your topography, but here, oh here!
Is a delicious, neglected crest.
I’ll ascend your gentle highland tor
With fresh, audacious kisses.
David Sapp, writer, artist, and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded an Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence grant and an Akron Soul Train fellowship for poetry. His poems appear in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom.
