Below is a poem I wrote at the end of my senior year. The topic of this piece is open for interpretation.
I hope you enjoy; please leave your comments below!
Her mouth’s a mail slot, slit by envelopes,
Emptied on Fridays by boys (pockets filled
With packs – sometimes gum, sometimes cigars, too)
Who loosen their jeans – belts buckle their knees –
Before one boy holds her like a green torch;
Her white gown curls in the wind and rises
Like a curtain above the boy’s blonde brows.
Underwear, laced and dry, that graffitied her
Dress with pink – a thin trinity – led him
To wonder if the thong could peel like skin of a banana
Down her leg, border
Her heels, and slip off like a hula-hoop.
He felt her fingers fold on his waistline.
Fingertips were wet and tasted like stamps:
He knew this. She opened her mouth, just to
Be filled again with packages: cigars?
No. Candy? No. Envelopes? Maybe so