Sitting on the Steps

Sitting on the Steps

A poem by Violet

butterfly

The warm-wind day
could not blow (like skittering autumn-bright leaves) away
the sun that lay burning on my leg

but I pivoted my attention to
the bees that drifted about us,
tiny missiles of venom at the ready.

In front of me he sat,
dress uniform impeccably worn,
(down to the hat from which I flicked a tiny spider
and was glorified by his thanks)
muscles beneath every inch the militant strength
it represented.

A bee swooped, hovering at the chest of the man next to him,
and generously he
cupped his hand,
unafraid,
and gently guided it away
into the open air. I wanted him to know
that I worshiped him.

Excerpt from Make the Best of Your Teen Years

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