Monday, July 12, 2010

St. Veronica (patron of laundry workers & photographers)

no one could figure out

how his face, as sudden

as the moment an apple

falls from the tree,

printed itself on the dress

you wore that day.

he only stood across the room

from you & your blushing.

his smile leapt out from behind

those lips and you were hooked.

the room swelled,

the windows rattled in their frames,

and there it was, right on the front

of your circle skirt.

clear as the vodka

used to spike the punch.

you ran out of the dancehall,

down to the ladies’ room.

the mirror reflected his eyes

right back into yours.

you felt him breathe

warmly on your stomach.

something was awakened.

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