Stacy Michelle


she was everything Georgia should be, grits, gap-teeth, giving; when she walked, her thighs were careful not to part with any of her magic. she drove me downtown, her mass of coiled-hair knifed the wind; one foot on the brake, the other accelerated downhill; sunglasses covered half her face, while millie jackson hi-jacked her mouth. we parked on a hill, looked out over the river, modest skyline, a cross emblazoned “Jesus Saves”. we took turns cartwheeling hand over foot, down & around the hill, giggled until we climaxed off the pure bliss of finding each other. I took one step to her three, fell behind to enjoy what her jeans held & I could not. I followed her everywhere: under redding bridge, to a dance in the cupola, to pray on the steps of first baptist; followed to the backseat of a white mustang, down to cool leather; followed as she pulled me to her height, hummed against my lips until they sang back; fell down deep, until my lungs burned, until her palm on my breast tilted me upright again.

When not tied to a headset, extolling the virtues of a working vacation to nurses, StacyMichelle can be found writing on her belly with two pencils buried in her hair. Her poems have appeared in The Fall Line Review, Stirring, and the anthology, Brothers & Others.

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