Lana Turner

I don’t speak tongues
or teeth
or intertwined fingers
or gently parted lips.

I don’t speak swaying hips
and fluttered lashes
or the gentle dip of a knee
or the half-lowering of eyelids.

I don’t speak slinky dress
and I don’t speak knees turned inward
glass held outward
head inclined
or neck curved.

I don’t speak the divots and slopes
of the human anatomy
and I can’t read the pages
of hidden looks through dusky glances
or the messages delivered through silence.

Some girls have Lana Turner smoke
and 1940’s filters
and the incline of the head is no different
than a neon sign,

but I have none of these
at my disposal.

I have chortles
and windmill arms
and a nervous disposition
and words that hover between
hate and indifference
so none might ever suspect love.

Scripts are safety nets
and improv was never my forte
so I excel in
expository hovering
because I can’t read the next lines
you’re trying to whisper to me
through your lean in, lean aways
and your heavy silences
and the tousle of your hair
in the manufactured breeze
and the fall of blue lights
on one pale, made-up cheek.

These words might as well be empty pages.


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