P O E T R Y
Jane
LESLIE LEONARD
C
APRIS were an unusual choice , but around your skinny , childish ankles they are , admittedly , perfect . My sister would call you put-together , well-assembled And your flat-ironed hair and practical flats convince me , Perhaps I am in love . Together we can sprawl , like clumsy girls , and bump our knees together , and twist our fingers against each other ’ s , and sit up late beneath tented covers whispering .
Together we can laugh at the way our mothers pronounce words like “ phase ,” “ wish ,” and “ disappointment .” I want to lap at the joints between your fingers , Your inner wrist , The sweat-coated bend of your knees , The folded skin of your elbows , Your curved neck , and the bedknob tip of your spine . I want to press against your blunted nails , bump my nose to yours , and tell you of the time I spent in-between . And you would understand . You , with your monosyllabic name , your too short pants , your exactlymeasured half glass of orange juice , and your monogrammed planner . You may not know the dusky haze of queer clubs , the taste of blood , the sound of a crying father like I do . But you brushed your hair behind your ear , tapped a pencil nervously against your thigh , and saw me . You saw me , and so I know you ’ d understand .
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