Mrs. Bronsiski's Love Letter
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Letter, Handwritten, Blue Ink on Spiral Notebook Paper. Apparently Confiscated From a Student by Mrs. Anne Bronsiski, Eighth Grade Teacher. Found Carefully Folded in Bronsiski's Top Desk Drawer Following Fatal Vehicle Accident, Age 41.
Murmur in my ear. I'm here to accept. I'm here to touch and touch again. To make the small of your back rise in slow pleasure. I'm here to lift your knees in the air.
I'm not Jesus. I'm the one who does the dishes.
I'm the one who smiles and grabs your attention. I'm here to ease you back down. No, you'll whisper. Yes, you'll laugh.
And then: Oh.
God, is this religion? God, is this emotion? God, is this what you meant?
Mouth it for me: Yes.
Right like I was saying. Everything you meant.
We'll lie in bed all day long with the radio on. Your favorite song. It's cloudy like you like it and I think it's raining again.
So we'll stay in.
Until it's dark and we'll drive with long headlights revealing our world: your face in the dash-glow, your eyes backlit like gas-flames.
Ghost blue, lurid red, grass green.
I'm here to define it. I'm here to make it real.
Your fingers, each one, nails, knuckles, tender bones, the delicate pad of each fingerprint on my skin. Heat whorls your handprint leaves on the winter glass. Heat fading. Your bare feet flat against the windshield.
Your hand on the glass.
I heard you say the word.
C. Dixon lives in Made-For-TV-Movie Land