Cheryl

Cheryl



Blouse slipped into her patterned skirt

ready to fall into the sloping southern downs

and small buttoned pockets puckered for the

saddles of summer affection



and cut into her chest, a flapping collar

hair like ribbons and strands kissing

her smooth chest.

I’m reminded of the feet of children running in the night

slapping the floor beneath,

like lips release the locking spur

to puck the air, pssh, puck, pssh.



Finally, the part in her hair

tears of monumental joy, curtained

the beauty aside,

my eyes to slow to track a movement,

and never knowing what’s inside.