Sensual Professor
(Previously published at Poetry Catalog)
Dark skeletal trees edged in white
and drifts piled high beside the driveways.
I started the last class until
I graduated from college
at Central University.
I put off English,
so procrastination caught
me in disguise.
My new English professor
exudes a complicated aura
baked in euphoria.
Ms. Olivia used stories
to teach us how to write.
Ms. Oliva wore skirts that
draped below her knees,
glasses that you’d picture
a professor to wear.
Ms. Olivia’s long, red hair
cascaded to the small of her back.
Seeing her ruffles my nerves.
I fell in love with Raymond Carver
and Why Don’t You Dance?
I spent more interest timing
how long it’d take us to fuck
before the next class.
But my suspicions cast doubt
on her disposition.
Like the stories Ms. Olivia assigned,
she embraced a mysterious persona.
One that I couldn’t find the pulse
of whatever she hid behind that black bra.
And what about trailing her body
the southern route?
A gentleman indeed, addressing her
as ma’am.
The bell rang.
The students filtered out.
A silence hung over me.
“Snap out of it,” Ms. Olivia said, cracking a grin.
I shifted my gaze, observing empty seats. “I was-”
“Looking at me,” Ms. Olivia said. “Like you do every day.” She wrapped her hair around her neck and placed files in her suitcase.
“You know,” I said, “you’re not much older than I am.”
Ms. Olivia sighed, stood tall, and placed her hands on her hips.
“It’s just that…” I trailed off in thought because everything I said was dumber than before.
“What are you trying to ask me?” Ms. Olivia looped her arms around her waist.
I ensured she caught me, giving her a once-over. I bit my lower lip.
Ms. Oliva blushed. “Oh, that.” She reached for her ponytail, removed the scrunchie, and shook her hair. “This really what you want?” She wrinkled a brow.
“Why don’t we start with coffee?” I said.
“You passed the test.” Ms. Oliva said.
“Where?”
“My house tonight for coffee and rum.” Ms. Olivia gave me a sly wink.
I arrived.
She let me in.
Ms. Olivia had a robe
that she had shed, nothing beneath.
Her pale frame curves in the right areas.
The coffeemaker was doing its thing.
Starbucks mocha flavor filtered through
the living room.
The fireplace crackled over evergreen logs.
The flames danced through the shadows.
She sat me down and served me cups
of coffee, a splash of bitter vodka,
guided us to pour the depth of our souls
over conversations that led us to forever.
The mystery was me.
(© 2024 AC)
