in your sketch
of the writer's
body open
and naked
for sex,
penciled
and erased
as drafts of love,
the writer's thighs touch.
you imagined me,
you claimed.
and who am I to write
otherwise?
I imagined you
the dancer, barefoot twirler,
singer, artist,
the writer
as someone who loved me
outside of art.

05/19/2005

Posted on 05/19/2005
Copyright © 2025 Angela Cotterman