P O E T R Y
Jane
LESLIE LEONARD
C
APRIS were an unusual choice, but around your skinny, childish ankles they are, admittedly, perfect. My sister would call you put-together, well-assembled And your flat-ironed hair and practical flats convince me, Perhaps I am in love. Together we can sprawl, like clumsy girls, and bump our knees together, and twist our fingers against each other’ s, and sit up late beneath tented covers whispering.
Together we can laugh at the way our mothers pronounce words like“ phase,”“ wish,” and“ disappointment.” I want to lap at the joints between your fingers, Your inner wrist, The sweat-coated bend of your knees, The folded skin of your elbows, Your curved neck, and the bedknob tip of your spine. I want to press against your blunted nails, bump my nose to yours, and tell you of the time I spent in-between. And you would understand. You, with your monosyllabic name, your too short pants, your exactlymeasured half glass of orange juice, and your monogrammed planner. You may not know the dusky haze of queer clubs, the taste of blood, the sound of a crying father like I do. But you brushed your hair behind your ear, tapped a pencil nervously against your thigh, and saw me. You saw me, and so I know you’ d understand.
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