All my life I’ve romanticized the East Coast girl:
Wearing needed caps in cold weather, and sipping on over-spiked toddies,
Chatting about film theory in honest inflection and tone.
She owns a camera that runs on film, and her dad is rich but she can’t stand the fact.
And then I met her once.
Her eyes bored me down, and her tongue flipped my body skyward; so I was ripped, of course,
In twos and threes. “How dare you?” she asked, walking over my pieces in flat shoes,
Without a stitch of makeup on. My left eye stopped rolling, resting on a crack, pupil up,
Picking peripherally what passes into view: an up-skirt shot,
Striped green and navy boyshorts,