by Terri Kouba
The sword hangs at his side like an extension of his body – he is a mutant who had grown not legs to crawl out of the sea to land, but had sprouted a metal sword and leather scabbard instead. His large left hand rests lightly on the hilt. It reminds me of the last months of my pregnancy when I sat with my hands resting on the top of my jutting belly. I have never since felt a more comfortable resting position for my fingers.
His hand grabs mine like a vice from which I cannot pull free. He tugs me to a grove of redwood trees, their sharp smell making my eyes water. Five-finger ferns are trampled beneath our feet, releasing spores that make me sneeze. His hands, large, strong, and callused, became feathers as they caress by face, my neck. Dirt from under his fingernails fleck onto my pale skin, leaving a trail of his passing, a witness to his presence. I take his hands, bring his fingers to my mouth and roll them around my tongue like a ripe grape. I taste turkey grease, mead, metal cleaner. Underneath, I taste my husband; his precision, his neatness, his tenderness. I kiss the tips of his hands and can almost taste my own heart.