3rd Frost

A frizz of strawberry against her forehead
A sheen of sweat on her cheeks, beneath her eyes
After she’d walk from class
I knew a need for her

Not a sexual need or a heart desire
But the longing to make a journey
With her, into her
To taste her matrika
The soft web of her speech
The outer shell of her mind

We ran routes across each other’s path
I never said one word to her
that year in the dorm

And when I’d played Secret Santa
To a friend on her floor
Played the jangling, mumble-mouthed song I’d written
In ode to my fat, green Buddha statue
She was among the young women
Packed into the 3rd Frost room
Who listened quietly, applauded
And whistled afterwards
Wished their boyfriends could mumble

But I was only a siren for myself
My true wishes never finding fruition
I only bit into dust and winter
In lieu of more succulent fruit