A contoured villanelle using “Teacher” by Elizabeth Alexander
When you don’t answer, I swear then count to ten,
remind myself I’m not a teen, no driving by to see.
My mantra: Trust him. No spirals. Remember to be kind.
I think of the flowers, sweet notes—too many to count—
how you wanted to like me first, you said. I was so mad
all the time, asked why. I swore then counted to ten
did planks, pushups, squats, your body: my ends,
my beginnings, all different but still the same tale,
or tail. I’d have licked your inches twice. You were kind
even when I wasn’t someone to trust. You’d come
by my office, messy hair, shirt undone.
I’d whisper your name, deem you my “ten,”
vow to pleasure you until I couldn’t. See you at nine?
imagine us on a loading dock, me bent over crates.
or you taking me on my desk—rough but kind.
I breathe out through my nose. I know what I need.
I’ll flick my tongue up your neck and into your ear.
I can hold my breath. I won’t even make it to ten
before we spiral in lust. You are my kind.