Tuesday, January 3, 2012

she could

she could

she could fold herself into her desk,
and we worshipped her—
posed like a virginal, erotic buddha

we, adolescent and male, idolized her delicate pose,
legs intertwined and a casual wrist against her jaw—
our imaginations fractured by beauty

she was thin and fragile as each of her hairs
and pristine as shattered glass—
the treasured fragments embedded in our bare feet

we were no mere spectators kneeling, always kneeling
at her throne, at her carelessness—
scattered pulses of urgency and dedication to fire

she anointed us with indifference and a toss of her head,
although she basked in the warmth at her ankles—
the flames were inside and out for us

we took her though, eventually, covertly, stored in our minds
as if the crystals worked up through our flesh into our brains—
her, folded like a magic, yellowing letter in our memories

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