by Lisa St. John
A sad girl, so lonely, with cut-off shorts, flirts with
a charming unshaven man, twenty or something
close. Bursting, a fearless thirteen will expand and
break twelve-ness to ride with this prince, but—
A poem is fragile; deficient.
A Harley instead of a horse is fine riding
because all she sees is his gaze, and then nothing
else matters. It penetrates. Looking that way that,
well, only a man can look. That is the moment—
A poem is too weak for memory maybe, improper.
The eager girl listens, hears only, You’re gorgeous.
He conquers. She knows disappearing now. Feeling
him over her, under her, stretching while shrinking
herself. And, discarded, broken, she asks us—
A poem: too small for a story this common?
***
Lisa St. John is the author of Ponderings (Finishing Line) and Swallowing Stones (Kelsay). Lisa believes art is hope; there’s beauty in possibility. She is currently working on a memoir. For a list of publications, see lisachristinastjohn.com.
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