By Lea Graham
My friend Anne says crushes aren’t bad,
but good in fact,
the hit to the body,
evidence of living,
fecund beings—
not compartmentalized,
relegated to status:
a box or line on forms,
a hole
(as for pigeons, notebooks, bills)
no matter
what year we are always fourteen, or twenty-two
or fill in your own crushing age—that world cerulean,
azure, or baby you
thumped against hoping
he or she might pass by everything
beginning
nearly ending again:
Eros, once again, limb-loosener, whirls me
sweetbitter
Sappho said—
breath catches, quickens,
a shivering—
turn of hand, lift of chin
name or lilt
composing,
takes
shape
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