Steam First time.  Nothing like imagined. Her below me. Her above me. My hair in her fingers. An album turning, who shall I say is calling? I will tell my sons. It was like this. It was sun through thin blinds It was cold air sliding in under warm. It was God turning to steam, then nothing. It was the wet nakedness of tongues. I will tell my sons because I have no daughters. I will tell them I have nothing to be ashamed of. I will tell them it was the end of faith, the beginning of wisdom; was everything and nothing at once. MATTHEW MURREY originally published in Mothering Magazine, Winter 1997