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cavalier Jesus
Every whisper turns to us, every
wondering eye and stillborn
smile. I am a celebrity,
you my escort, my case (and cause)
of d'j' vu. Everything is tiny,
except you, and your too-big
feet, swimming, in steel-toed
boots. I am small at your side,
a young girl, feet pretty and pink
like ballet slippers. My
collarbone is your river, your
belt, my coastline. We are sailboats,
girlish and thin, in these uncharted waters
(in the hallways we
become brazen, not left
alone with who we
are, or could be, if unwanted.)
I suppose, in the night together we
could become soldiers, but we
are not brave. (Or perhaps to say I am not,
there is nothing shy about you
soft sincere petting.)
We sit in English classrooms
chock-full and brimming, and blush
in the black, hands wrapped like ivory shells.
It is a fake night, still ' I am more
adventurous when the stars fly
out and depression weights me down
like a stone. When those times
come exploding, you hold me with
your laughing words. Someday,
I will wash clear for you, but in today,
I am too happy, regardless.
So who are we? The devil or the angel?
I am still. You brush my throat
with a masculine hand, a stately reminder
that we are alone. Even in this classroom,
onscreen Heath Ledger discussing
breasts like a cavalier Jesus,
I am the Virgin Mary. I slip my soul
into your pocket and say, Meet me for lunch.
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