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Across my inner thigh,
the left one, high along
the tightrope of tattered
lace and the pale ridgeline

that leads this wanderer
from vertical curled hip
to hollowed pool below:
Fingertips brush, press, and root

through plexus of treasure.
When I was a young girl
I rode an expensive
Selle Francais on expensive

English saddles. I loved
the proper sit and post;
best of all the country
canter, to see withers

damp, the steady heavy
muscles transform to liquid
ripples, shivers of nerve
and heat. Cruel girlish gaze:

Capture is a wonder
both wicked and desired.
The sweet hand’s guiding drape
leaves in its wake a scroll

lavish, long, thin: imprint
of a quill, black ink scrapes
knee to toe, back again.
Each touch a stain of pleasure –