She herself feels conceited looking here.
Blue eyes, two clear, rimmed lenses, pierce the glass
and examine what she has to offer.
She is young, skinny, busty and tall but
still finds time to be hunched over. Summer
has her in shorts and a tank top, tawny
hair kissing her shoulders. Right now, she is
at camp, perched on a bathroom countertop.
As she writes, her tongue forms wave-crashing words
against crooked teeth, pounding in her mouth:
“Her long neck holds a penniless, tan face.
The acne was really terrible.”
.
Separated by time, I yet know her
the same. The feeling is just what differs.
This Spencerian sonnet is copyright 2013 by Jessica McLean. All rights reserved. File sharing is strongly encouraged.
The Rose 
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