Loria Harris
SECRET
Did you know I have a freckle on my left inner thigh? I imagine it’s a secret, a prize like carrot cake hiding in the fridge under its white cream cheese icing and cold light. People would thirst to see it, except for not knowing it’s there. My mailman, driving past in his rumbling truck, ignoring my wave in favor of pointing his nose inside my mailbox. Lust is a spine-cracked paperback novel that lives at the library. I’ve read my favorite a few times, but there aren’t many books I’ve visited more than once. I put myself on the shelf, wait for tender fingers to pull me down. It’s winter, and I can’t remember the last time I shaved all the way to my upper thigh.
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