What are you hiding?
Not a thing, School Miss, you of knotted knuckles,
quick to swing the hickory stick. I knew you then,
when you were fair and young, and moon-struck
and posed before the mirror,
untangling cascading curls
of midnight veils
with teeth of comb
comb of bone
of hard-on boys
in tight fit jeans
the gift of them
the pride of horses.
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