Lolita

O______
Lo.__

Afternoons
on my knees
in the sunroom
looking through your
grade-school yearbook.

Could I, could I just
chase that stranded blush
down your downy body,
then, winded, drink
at your shallow-ladled hips?

But once, to only
bring my bitten lips
to your bright flank,
so brazen and
so flaxen.

Under the mother
whose milk bruised your mouth,
I think of you and only;
I wring my hands;
breath in breath, I beg.

For you are my lucky number,
trick candle, loose tooth, and when
my foot falls asleep,
it dreams of your foot.