Glass Poetry Press

Volume Four Issue Two

Marcus Jackson

Woman in Secret

My cousin eight and I five, he led me to a gutted Econline, propped by cyndars in a neighbor's side drive. On bare floor near a wheel-well lay a Hustler, peeled to its center pages. Crouched in the smell of brake fluid and leaked rain, my cousin pointed to the woman — nude and spread-legged upon rumpled paper. Dass Pussy, he whispered, syllables rising steamlike through the vast cabin. Not the breasts or the ample insides of the thighs, but the sleek, transfixing pink, her own fingers pinning the wings agape. I couldn't yet have lost my first tooth, couldn't have contained lust's dire rivers, though I stared at that woman, a wire in my mind having been pulled, the same wire that trips when the ear is entered by the warm, first words of a secret.