You, Formidable, Fracturer

I could never be anonymous I mean
the desks here know my name.
They shrill “Poet” in an instant.
They’ve waited
seatless, standing with the room
and dusty marker caps and
attic eyes drinking us like
So index cards are out of the question.
Even without distinctive handwriting (like
beeped wings and hourglasses and
—oh the way you
write your
name always cursive)
the stationary would spill me
like a penny.
And I can’t evaporate (I tried in
grade school gym class,
sneaker heart squeaking so
loudly you can hear it from
even here with my different hair)
so here are my
live-wire hands still
I’ve been wearing my four-leaf clover
earrings nonstop and too bad
no one really does
St. Patrick’s Day strangeness because I’d hide their greenness
behind my hair just in case you’d hover
near this ocean-clad skeleton for a nanosecond.
If I put a price tag on my pulse, it’d skyrocket expensive,
a stock market surge,
around your presence,
and my
parenthetical smile
is two parts apology,
but the majority
of it is purely fascinated
with the curve of your accents,
the bright bend and dip
of sound waves as if when we
have conversations the words are dancing (mine a
jittery, clipped,
foreign-style something
I’m unfamiliar with,
feet rushing,
fumbling; yours a
harmony of deliberate steps,
elegance even in
your eyebrows)
and I try not to look at specifics or definitions,
but though I know I leave my glasses
smudged or removed,
even blurred you’re beautiful,
and I cannot say anything
without metaphor it seems (I could barely
say yes when you asked
if I had a glue stick, senses trembling that
even though I was the easiest to reach, being in a direct path, you’d asked
something, triviality seeming like
a momentous collection of rain puddles reflecting
but oh might I add you’re a
calligraphic work of wonder.


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