Ankle

His back to me,

seated on the rail,

leaning conversationally

toward a couple of friends,

talking with his hands,

amusing his companions,

straw hair over

Nordic-white skin,

broad shoulders draped

with cornflower tee,
one denim-wrapped leg
crossed under the other,
showing skin between

jeans and trainers.

 
I’ve read of scandalous
flashes of flesh
in Victorian novels
and laughed at prudery

of such extremity

that a mere glimpse

of ankle could arouse,

even doubtful of its truth,

but now I get it,

and I want him,

having never even

looked into his eyes

to see them smile.

Touché, Victorians.

 

Copyright 2013

T. Allen Culpepper

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