She is serene.
Hair spun of cotton candy.
She is a Gibson Girl, she is a Klimt portrait.
She is a swan.
Rising up from her mat, she comes onto full relevé, tiny pop-rock-crackles from each perfect toe.
The students walk forward, thanking her for class. She envelops every outstretched hand with both of her hands, forehead slightly bowed.
One man thinks:
If we were lovers, we would stand facing one another, with hands clasped (my right in her left and my left in her right) and folded in towards our chests and our foreheads would bow to touch.
Like we were paper Valentines on a school desk.
Like we were the flashes of a photo booth and the strip that developed.
Like we were swans.
