by M.N. O'Brien
I see you looking
perverse, a beige scarf weighing down
the collar of your petticoat and the trivial
way your fingertips move your hair behind your ears.
At some point, I was afraid of this,
as if The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa was more
embarrassing than beautiful.
I guess, like today’s scholars,
it is because of my age.
We’re still so young, and it’s not fair
being questioned all the time, when no one gave us any answers.
I think that’s the crux of the matter, like your boots,
and how your pant legs go over them.
Are you hiding something,
or do you disagree with the color blue and one dollar bills?
Your answer won’t turn me away,
but that assumption could end a chance
dancing in the air.