Leila  

          She slumps over, forearms

          spread on the desk, thick mascara

          and lilac shadow weight her lids.

          Just tell me what to do, she pleads.

          Hopeful she’ll complete 

          this one assignment,

          I squat at eye level:

          Tell me what you’re thinking.

          Talk to me.

          As she describes a mountain range

          of rising and falling plot events, 

          I glimpse the face she buries

          beneath layers of makeup and inertia.

          I beam, she smiles – a ripple

          of clear, bright water washes over us.

          No, I’m not going to do it.

          I don’t like to think.  It’s too hard.

          Shadows fall, eyes shut.

                                                                         Jodi Hottel