Saturday, June 28, 2014

Encounter (Meghan)


In delicate crochet from her vintage shop,
her long, straight hair parted down the middle,
doe eyes that looked up to recognize mine,
you were there.

She spoke to me, simple directions.
I smiled transparent ignorance: a lie.

And he, beside her, I barely knew
without the handlebar mustache, his arms
covered in color stronger than I remember, but
you were there.

How could he recall my shivering face
always shielded with your gloves?

If you walked through the door,
past the blades of my back
your fingers quickly memorized,
I’d want to know if I am still a muted palette,
a wheel of sophistication tinged with gray.

I’d want to ask if you’ve found the second in a million,
If you harvest parsnips and eat them straight
from the ground while she stands by and laughs,
carting carrots to rinse in the sink.
Her mind is matter.
Her body is bones.
Her love is simple addition.
You don’t admire, but you understand.

And I’m being carried from room to room,
valued like a view with indeterminate horizon:
a riddle you’d begun to unravel
when I still let others pull the strings.

She’ll tell you that she saw me,
though she’s sure I’ve traded soul for something else.
She didn’t see you in my bourbon neat,
didn’t know that
you were there.

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