To The Mute Sound of Cars Passing

It’s not the length of your legs, Loxley
That had me rummaging
Through panes and panels of pixels
Where the finest grains are grander than you

Not the plush milk that your cheeks are made of
Or the raised lacerations
That you try to conceal with quaint, teasing flashes
And chance glances at your willowy limbs

Nor do I swoon over your neck
That you keep secret
With drapes of quiet, sandy hair
Woven into plaits on hot, sweaty days

It’s the breadth of your deep pupils
When they dilate quickly
With the excitement of good news
Somewhere under glazed spectacles

You had me at the gleaming subtlety
Of your brown eyes and immature teeth
And the nervous gliding of your fingers
When you raise your arms at measured angles

It’s the innocence you haul with your toes
That leaves a trace
When you walk around clutching books
Against your humble breasts, and up to your chin

Maybe one day you’ll show me, Loxley
How you carry the weight
Of the world on your frail shoulders
And how you choose robust words that sound soft

Still your prose collects and evokes
The tenderest songs
Born of harsh, uncompromising assaults
From the intimacy of kinship

So smile and strut for us, Loxley
Dry your eyes and hide
Beneath the embellishments you crafted
But don’t forget to open up and taste the decadence

Reviews

[Alexus Shanae]

You really got me with this one.