she could
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By P. L. Thomas


she could fold herself into her desk,
and we worshipped her--
posed like a virginal, erotic buddha

we, adolescent and male, idolized her delicate pose,
legs intertwined and a casual wrist against her jaw--
our imaginations fractured by beauty

she was thin and fragile as each of her hairs
and pristine as shattered glass--
the treasured fragments embedded in our bare feet

we were no mere spectators kneeling, always kneeling
at her throne, at her carelessness--
scattered pulses of urgency and dedication to fire

she anointed us with indifference and a toss of her head,
although she basked in the warmth at her ankles--
the flames were inside and out for us

we took her though, eventually, covertly, stored in our minds
as if the crystals worked up through our flesh into our brains--
her, folded like a magic, yellowing letter in our memories