Surreptitiously purchased, that buoyant magazine
(remember the bookstore cashier's self-righteous scowl)
brought to me a photographic glimpse of your elation
and the shutter's split second capture of the release
of your profuse, core-confected, glistening sweetness.
Local prudes and haters might have considered this obscene.
But it brought me to a moment of real completeness;
your slender, very naked, beauty was cause for celebration,
that neither prudery nor prejudice could befoul.
Each of those pages' corners bore a definite dog-eared crease.
J-Called