A scar on her ankle
What clipped bird’s wings
What poured this milky skin
Who shaped these small hands
Her mousey perfection
I can only imagine the sight of sweat weaving between her breasts
Toes poking out between thread and buckles
Who meets between her thighs
Lifts her at her ribs and tongues sweet lips, and hips, and waist
Who gets to know this beautiful normal?
Her modesty, her simplicity
Symmetry so precise its blind
Once seen now cannot be unseen
But I could have past her over suns and moons and I
Would have never thought her a gem to prize
Now I sit trying to hear instead of see
My body working against me to flush my face
To bend me
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