Her eyes were no more mysterious.
Than any improbable circle.
Her hips no more essential.
Than any bow and drill device.
Her breasts and fingers and mind.
Were above my paygrade.
Her mouth folded words.
Into paper airplanes.
Some of them flew straight.
Others looped and crashed.
I was her ass.
And her advocate.
There was nothing made of paper.
And paste that I would not wear.
On my head.
I deflected the other vacationers’.
I questioned aloud how many zombies.
How many understudies death needed.
As we all bore the crossing of her legs.
Review by Laurinda Lind
I hope the writer intended this to be funny in a surreal way, because I love this poem’s verbal airplanes and the concluding hypnotic/deadly leg-crossing.