once, a girl sent me a photo of herself.
in it, she is twisted half away from the frame,
a lamp opposite the mirror throwing her silhouette
back onto the lens. she is naked, and stretched
full length: tip toes, taut calves, hands up, arms extended.
the knobs of her elbows make flat whirls
in her golden skin. the round of her hip
breaks the linear tableau.
i do not know her well; perhaps
there is some exhibitionism in her, perhaps she seeks
the intimacy of being viewed this way.
it is a photo clearly meant to catch
the eyes on her curves, on the slick rounds
of her breasts and her thighs. but if you look
at her face, where the dark eyes i grew to love are
narrowed in concentration, you will see
the conscious ire of it: is this what it takes? she asks.
is this what will make you see me?