My papers strewn on a dead-end boy’s room
by Misty Rampart

You could say that

I was looking for the line

between your thighs.

And almost daily I deeply and daringly wanted to cross it,

even within earshot of my father’s voice.

Tugging on that sometimes

massive rope to let all the

church bells in town know to ring.


Showing you the way to

get to my wisdom and my breaking point,

my in-between thighs,

pointing out a path to the house on a

hill that rests between my labia.

Searching for a story to

tell with a shocking ending—

horror and sex mixed with man makes good.

Do good baby, the way you always ended on me.

Cue the saxophone and the close up.

A wry, sticky smile.

But you always knew what

it would be: not a poem, as

such things were past you

in that past, but a milky

display of quantum affection

in whatever direction I

commanded you to send it.
About Misty Rampart:
Misty Rampart is a child of the 60’s and new to the business of writing for
publication. She seeks to explore her past to bring it into her present context.
Email her at
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