Afternoon Homage To The Crook

I love to catch sight of the crook of a man’s arm. That hollow place, just below the rise and fall of his bicep, shadowy and curved when his arm hangs slack at his side. The skin is usually bare and hairless, softer and paler than his forearms.¬†I’m transfixed by the junction of strength and vulnerability, the connectivity so sensual and revealing.

I’m partial to my husband’s, for many reasons. Not least is the fact that it mimics the back of his knee in its sensitivity and ticklishness. The most delicate graze of my fingertip causes a pleasant, nervous jerk, and his wicked, delicious retaliation, pinning me down for bright, laughable vengeance.

I’m still surprised by the sudden tautness and directive it enacts, pulling my head towards his impulsively for a warming kiss, as we exit a dark restaurant onto a white-cold street in Manhattan. Both of us tipsy, tasting of sea salt and red wine.

I long for the feel of it at the nape of my neck, when I’m spent from the stress and the wrongs of the day. When it’s night and neither of us can speak, but we are together, silent and knowing.

I honor it, quietly, with soft kisses, to mark the space where our children’s tiny heads nestled, trusting and helpless, in their first days of life. So thankful that somewhere within their still-forming neural cognition, they knew, as I have, that they were welcome, and safe, and home.

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