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  • Friday morning, he asked me to describe my thighs
    over email and coffee.

    What can I tell him about my never shaved thighs,
    with long golden hairs, glints of copper - silky in the sun?

    The longsuffering slope of sunshine that begins at
    the knee, moving upwards where no razor has ever traveled?

    It seems a bit precise to note the bumps and scrapes of childhood;
    nothing sexy about a small scar that uniquely marks my upper leg.

    That six year-old neighbor girl still remembers the backyard swing-set mishap,
    blood gushing like a cherry tomato popped, too ripe on the vine.

    Late summer, all legs wild and dangling over edges,
    sliced by an aluminum slide in the fenced green grass yard.

    Tiny raised indentations trace the line of demarcation where
    Dr. Finley cross-stitched the gash closed and upon it no hair grows.

    There are not enough reasons to make me want to take the
    Straight-edge of a razor, coaxed on by the pressure to be smooth.

    Why take the plunge and do it, when I know the cost of upkeep is too high?
    Leave the peach skin on, juicy and nappy like the fuzz on the surface.
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