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At The New School

by Nanette Rayman

She wears a dress, unlikely existential color
of strawberries, the curve of her eyes
almond and agitated where they dart
beneath a fringe of velvet hair.
Fingertips like fawns tremble at her cheek
soft as a deer’s new horn.

The man she’s talking with, the philosophy professor,
is also exquisite, chest muscles like sirloin
breaking against his tee shirt.
I remember joining thighs and lips,
harbours of eyes and belly,
skeletons along a black lace picket fence.

He is leaning against the blackboard,
she is arching in, her arms two flapping sails,
and I am at the door watching this moment
when her voice stumbles and drifts away.
Nothing now but the sound of a dogwood branch
slapping against the window, a wren
pouting through the blooms. Mute.
They are wondering. But not about that.
About the honeysuckle opening with a sigh.
Yes. About the somnolent haze of clouds.
Was Nietzsche a closet romantic? But not about that.
No. Never. Not about that. 

 


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