I don’t know what she’s thinking, holding a long thin brush between her lips, elbows
touching to hold fast what lies between them. She looks up at the lens, her blonde hair
coiffed, her eyes wanting what she does not need to find words for, content to be here
in her blue blouse and black striped pants just up over her knees, poised on bare feet
crossed, toes between the straps of her sandals. She is sitting on a curb with a book,
The Thinking Body, beside her purse. I was a boy reaching puberty when I loved her.
(10 January 2014)
copyright 2014 by Floyce Alexander
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