I wanted to wrap my hands in her hair and plait, make a saint of the girl whose name I shared. We weren’t a couple, just a couple of girls. Maybe a robin’s fat chest was breast, and in one breath we snorfed afresh. Fake plants atomized atoms from air. Doilies and losers waited on virgins while virgins smoothed cream over elbows and wrists. She was the I and I was the you. Sometimes we switched: mine toasted, hers Swiss. Teacher wrestled one voice to the page. That openness girls feign. How it’s gone, and then winter. One thing I remember: I was cold all the time. Scrawling designs on bruised shins and knees. Recycling C’s into airplanes and cranes.
Carol Guess Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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