On Her Cheeks
by Arlene Ang

it is always Sunday,
like a hammock, or long skirt
lifting lazily in the breeze,
as if you could guess
at hidden intimacy,
guess what she is sexing
in her mind
every time you ask
to speak to the abbess,
every time she announces
your name
with a swish of black,
moist lips.
And when she leaves,
she avoids
looking you deeply
in the eye.


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