Drinker of Ink

by Shannon Castleton

I don’t even know that many things—it’s just that the things I say are sometimes not the things other people have thought to say yet.

I felt a childish zing at hearing him speak the word “conceive.” He had said it so casually, as though it did not connote two bodies wanting and needing and whispering in the dark.

Some females might inspire a self-bet on what they will wear dancing, or how long it will take to kiss her; I rouse men to bet themselves on what poem I’ll write about in essays.

“Good Morning, Vivienne. Nice journal,” and then, when he saw Happy as a Dog’s Tail on my desk, “I’m guessing you like Anna Swir.” How do you read my soul like a book? If only I had the flirting prowess to have said that.

I know I taught class today, said something about metaphor, but all I could think was Why won’t she look at me?