Most beautiful creature,
red pen in hand,
tiny cursive bleeding around margins.
She drinks her orange spiced tea with cream and sugar.
When the printer spits out her outline
and she realizes she hasn’t numbered
her pages, she sits on the floor in her
track jacket and moccasins,
rifles through the mess efficiently,
looking for clues for what comes next.
She does not know what she will do when this
is over. The school, the job at the spa
on the upper east side, the internship
with the governor. They are
only parts of her pieces.
She rearranges paintings,
places candles where it’s dark,
leaves for work before the sun.
But now, her hardly chipped mocha
lacquered fingers hold Marxism
and temperance in place.
She scrawls a thesis