He’s the type of little boy
that in ten years
will make your limbs twist
and your heart heave.
He’s the type of little boy
whose brown eyes are set
in such lush lashes,
it’s like cutting through ragweed
to get to the hush he’s hiding.
He’s the type of little boy your grandmother
warned you about
as she shucked corn into
an empty dishpan,
eyeing the geese and the
whole aquiline slope that
stretched out
back.
“Boys like that will sweep you up,
will flat knock you with a brass tipped
bite.”
Tapping her
Boxy
Black
Shoes
She’d suck the half-ripe kernels between
her teeth.
But she didn’t know the twist and heave.
You,
Lolita in his redwing
Clasp.
The rain across your bowed backs
soft and feathered.
Skin dipped in pollen
His saffron finger prints
the only
sign.
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