Stone fences lined the road to the art academy
where the teacher unscrolled the butcher paper
on the floor, told me to lie down. I fanned my fingers
and spread my legs as a boy drew my outline in marker.
The ceiling was so far up, the cement floor cold against my back
and the smell of the room was the smell
of drying acrylic. I stood up from the paper
and my body was an outline inside the sneaker prints
of the boy who had drawn me. The teacher handed me a pen,
said, Now, fill in the rest.
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From We Call Them Beautiful. Used with permission of Diode Editions. Copyright © 2019 by KC Trommer.
