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Foreign Exchange Student
 I want to write to you.
By Christopher J. Bradley

My fingers drip through your
rainforest flesh and you gush.
I want you to feel the tide
like the top of a surfer's tube
that I've never ridden.

Your earlobes are my toungues
grope spot and I see the arch of your
back
I twist my bony musicians hands
mathemetician's hands
into your hair
the crop of your
short tight golden mane
not dyed at the roots
and your fingers
grip the post
your arm twisted underneath
your neck
behind your head.

I will not speak of your breasts
they do not make you the student that you are
I will not ask of your past lovers
for their voices and their lack of vision with respect to your value
are inconsequential.
I already know that you will tell me about them
when the time is ready
and of course as I have spoken
the time before our mergeance
will be long
and you will have to write your thoughts about this poem
and this experience
after I introduce you to my family
and our strange ways
and my many tribes
and your exchange parents despise me
while your real ones have an adoration for my effort
It is my belief that you will be the one
and that it will yet be
a long time in coming.

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