I stand in front of a full sink,
my leg inches from the dishwasher’s open door,
and lean over the racks to add a glass.
You are cutting a half circle behind me with a hand full
of forks and spoons, dropping water, marking our path.
We lean and wait, and wait and bow,
letting each other pass
while water sprays the coffee machine,
and coats the counter, and
dampens the bottoms of our feet.
But then I turn
as you reach and
for less than a moment
my skin knows the warmth of yours.
Amy Secrist 
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