It was supposed you were never
attracted to women who laughed, perhaps
devouring the expression when it fell, like
let’s say eggs—the sniggers or giggles
*
Once, they sent a truck to pick up your latest
though it fit in your palm, the weight of a dove
*
To see a woman, said the narrator
was to undress her, unmake the veil
track the very shape
and this, your precocious early life,
the public/pubic rush, cunts
tender guilt, slap the horse, sketching
everything. Artist
Anne Wallace takes your Boy with Horse
she plays it with a girl’s blade and everything
is still, where you had it move
*
You’re so popular it’s safe
|