Wednesday, 25 April 2012

23: Legs

I spent the summer as a sand castle architect
trying to engineer the cusp and fall of the tides.

I held up balconies with the crook of my back
and made aged balsamic vinegar from the tears
of brown bears and wayward salmon.

I didn’t write home, didn’t let my tales
drip down like Vietnamese coffee—thick
and tooth-aching sweet—I didn’t.

I hid the obtuse angles of my body under
linen and nodded so long and so often
a weeble took up residence in my chin.

Seventeen and laid out on offer like
polished brass buttons on the Flohmarkt table.

I spent the summer pretending
my legs had a licence to rescind.

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