There was a quiet sickness behind all she did.
A gauntness to the cheeks that spoke of more
than slenderness. Her hands were smooth, rid
of tremors, awkward gesture or rude sores,
but the fingernails were bit to chips, the cuticles
red where skin was stripped. And more,
Her teeth were white–so white a grin could mute
the mind. But still, the gums were drawn, poor
for any vitalness, whipped for any vibrantness.
and the teeth–considered closely–a score
of fangs, perhaps thirsty for the blood of otherness.
Such violentness! Her grace, her wit, her mind for
polite and unassuming properness
infect my mind like pathogens, quietly colonizing
and corrupting what good sense is left to me.
And she, in love with me. Me! This is the crux;
The greatest of her sickness’s. For most clearly
was her weakness known to me, when she jaded,
jaundice, lovesick–made request of me.
By: Graham Boldt