|
Amy L Sargent
Office Hour I
I think about removing my panties, thumbs crawl under pleated wool skirt, hook the soft, scalloped elastic orbiting my softer hips. I'd place them in a crumple on my desk blotter, wait for you to notice. You'd follow my hands, my thoughts— you would already know, Like you know the writing on the milky inside of my arm is a Whitman quote, you'd know the dampness of those panties between us, know my size. You would stand, and you'd know of nautical stars placed on the underside of my pale thighs— how they intend (as if you were a ship) to lead you home. Pittsburgh Women Are Divisible by Three 1. Only in house coats & housedresses, she ventures out of her house. She knows one has pearled snaps, one does not. Both, however, are transformed by the addition of a pilled cardigan sweater & a pair of street shoes. Suddenly, no one can tell she's wearing nightgowns to the bus stop or grocery store. 2. Women I arbitrarily like and admire. 3. She wears a belly shirt, believes it is meant to display her soft, prominent abdomen. Her children are sticky mouths, loud faces, ponytails that need tightening. Swallows I'd picture me, next to a water pump, rim clinks teeth as I drink well water from a dented, tin cup, tethered to a pail with frayed twine. My skirt lifts like a sail, faded calico pulls on legs—clothing as kite. Feet bare, stained with cut grass and fresh dirt, calloused to bees and small rocks—the same rocks worked to the surface of my tomato bed every spring, no matter the number picked free, afternoons on knees removed the fall before. This taste of new growth, of pine-needle mulch and fresh seed, you wouldn't have to ask if I could start like this, with a sip.
|