She asks what I thought
the first time I saw
her,
I'm scared I might say the wrong thing,
she might hate me for
it,
my alarm over my not being
the best writer in
our office
now that she's arrived,
mixed with this intense sense
of electric I feel when in the same room,
like static you get from rubbing cloth,
an odd magnetic
feeling that comes
sometimes when
overcharged,
I keep thinking
sparks will fly
if we get too close,
bolts of lightning even,
though I can't
imagine why,
me at my age, she at hers,
it is difficult at
times to know
who is the adult when
she seems to know so much
she claims she
doesn't know,
a Buddha with magnificent eyes,
a slanted mouth of which
anything might emerge,
my first sense of her
as something not completely real,
not phony,
otherworldly,
mysterious, sexy and
above all brilliant,
none of which I dare articulate,
possibly can't.
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