The doctor said, "No intercourse."
He described how the spasms of orgasm
could squeeze a tenuously implanted fetus
right out of the uterus.
He clamped his two hands together,
made a squishy noise with his mouth.
We comply. But not touching at all
had felt like death between us.
My husband holds me, runs his hands
over my body, kisses me and kisses me,
and I cry. I dread that touch
that might cause too much pleasure.
But there, between fear and sex, is need.
Cheryl Gatling
published in Clark Street Review
