A flash of breast.
Next to my locker. I
didn’t mean to see. Creamy
bell of damp columbine.
Then quick towel
as curtain, as veil.
In the valleys where her
muscle joins bone, rivers.
Toes curl glossy still,
like pebbles,
underwater fruit
of wet sand.
I want her
so badly
for you. Locker
twenty-four.