Crack me from the inside out.
It’s a skill,
And I’m the juvenile chick—
But who is countryside? I’m shifting
idealized in the teenager’s face brunette innocence:
Speckled white shell against a colorful backdrop.
Body tanned and sitting. Smile cracking from the whites of shell:
“…of the Summer.” Hell no, I’ll change that to a lifetime—
bare-skin points to art, breathtaking grandiose of lost traditions:
Sexuality and luncheons on granules of sand.
The venues of manipulation— eyes daring you to permeate
through like watercolor, permeate;
She’s not undressed on the beach, or in the countryside
a scantily two-piece bikini over the secret parts,
Fresh fruits over hidden parts, roses as secret parts—
Be sorry. Because no-one sees,
Don’t be sorry, Because they gaze.
©Linda J. Wolff