by Priscilla Becker
We were raised to be discreet
and you, I think, were only
hinting when you traced
my body in the grass.
We made a black thing
out of light--without effort.
And your shape on the sand
looks relieved; my face,
a redundancy. And if we
stood a certain way
we could extend our length
of days until it seemed
that we were squinting
or not breathing properly.
I made a picture with my hand,
a monologue of movement,
which did little toward
impressing you. I have been told
that that was then. Sometimes
I think I see you there; so many
nighttimes look like you.
(From Internal West)
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Yes, definitely read Becker.
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