Written early 2012
(This is from my poetry notebook and must have been written prior to April 2012. I’m not sure. I don’t date poetry notes. I tend to write descriptions of things as warm up for an eventual poem. This must have been a first impression, although I worked for some months with her. This, I wrote, but never went on to write the poem Why I never posted it is beyond me.)
She stands out, even in a crowd, even when she doesn’t want to, not too tall for a girl, not too skinny either, her dark hair framing a slightly tilted face and dark intense eyes that make you wonder what she is thinking when she looks at you, what exactly she sees, and how exactly she sizes you up – her blouse often open one button too far and would draw your attention if you could drag your stare away from her eyes. You might divert your gaze to her mouth, full yet tilted lips that change color day to day like a mood ring with no shade of lipstick predictable enough for you to read, lips often parted slightly as if to imply some deep secret she might at any moment divulge, absolutely kissable lips, though you get the sense you’re not worthy or lucky enough to ever get there, yet you listen to what she imparts – if not great wisdom, then some sense of deep experience she alone has, and you need, her voice soft enough to suggest she has struggled, and yet is determined to survive.
Sometimes she sounds so innocent, you want to throw your arms around her, to protect her, and yet, something in the way she looks at you, the angle of her head, the slant of her smile, tells you she knows more about anything than you ever will.
For some reason she always smells like spring rain, the scent that rises when new leaves drip, and you ache to catch the tase of her on your tongue, when like all illusive things, it always escapes you.
You get the overwhelming urge to touch her, to feel if her skin is as tender as it looks, bumping into her by accident or dropping something deliberately so her fingers might make contact with yours when she gives it back.
Sometimes, you want to sip from the same cup she just sipped from, to taste how she must taste, thinking maybe she is sweet, when deep down in your being you suspect she is bitter sweet, like a Chinese dish you can’t keep from devouring, no matter how full you think you are, it is never enough.
And you strongly suspect men have thrown themselves onto rocks over her or tied themselves to masts of ships when they hear her sing, driven mad by desire for her, great men, strong men, made weak – Odysseus, Jason, Hercules, even the mighty and angry Achilles, who plucks Cupid’s arrows out of his heals.
You want to think nobody is good enough for her – especially you, when it is exactly what which paint the look of loneliness deep in her eyes, this perfect imperfect beauty that scalds at even the briefest touch.
Who is she?
