Athena Dixon and Brian MacDonald



Vesper by Athena Dixon
Across the square a stout
brown leg swung up and over
the seat of the Vespa. Fluttering
in the breeze her skirt, a slip of blue
cotton covered in tiny white anchors,
swung up and over with her. Tumbled
when the fabric caught and twirled
her to the square. A slight movement
designed to hide the expanse of thighs,
her attempt to find a graceful way to rise.
When she finally managed to pull
her body from the ground, a plume
of gritty dust came with her. The anchors
were weightless, sacrificed their worth
for my momentary gain of flesh.


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