Will Anyone Harbor a Broken Poetess?

Book-skimming is a bit like brushing fingertips across the face of the ocean.

You caress a page and probe no deeper.

Turn to the art tomes when words go from chime-clear to brassy.

By the window of the bookhaven perches the kind of woman you don’t ask for anything.

You don’t ask because today is Thursday and she looks busy.

You don’t ask because she is too beautiful to be real.

When she turns her body towards yours and speaks,

Like she sees you,

Everything is hotcakes and honey.

“I like everything you’ve got going on there,” she says,

And you almost drop Norman Rockwell on his head.

But she’s out of the chair and halfway down the stairs already.

“You too!” you say, trying to stay respectful with your eyes

And failing.

Her Moroccan blue turtleneck tells no lies, but also very little truth

Accept that she’s slim, streamlined

And has the eyes of an elk.

“Are you a model?” you blurt.

“Periodically,” She nods.

You’ve put her in limbo, halfway down, neither here nor there, and she doesn’t like it.

“I’ve got to stretch. My body doesn’t like being still.” She frees herself.

You pretend to look at photographs but her voice is dancing around inside of you

And Norman has shut off his intrigue.

His biographical photo is giving you a look that says:

No, sister. You’re not getting away this time.

She’s back, and speaking like each word is a bright shiny quarter

But she’s paying for a diamond necklace

One

Syllable

At a time

In an accent so ancient and hollow that it could be a cathedral.

Your own words sound flat and stark, a hillbilly canter.

She says that she’s posed for photos in a river

Nude and covered in mud.

She writes about PTSD and lives in a house full of artists.

Your eyelids flutter with the shutterbug spunkiness,

Too fast and too light,

She tickles the consciousness.

She left Chicago because it was no place for a lone woman,

No place for a woman who frequents graveyards

And talks to cats

And listens to Kate Bush.

It’s warm even by the window where she can look out at herself looking in.

She’s a bit crazy

Crazy beautiful

An off-kilter diamond weaver with very glossy lips.

“Do people approach you like this often?” she asks, and you can only laugh.

Nobody approaches anybody like this, ever.

Not with the clarity of a crystal-glazed poetess

Too raw and too real

She’s shaking your hand so please don’t break her or eye contact or the speed limit when driving home

Now the grey air is sharper than lemons

And you are clutching something soft to your cheek.

Did she give you something precious?

Or steal something away?

Is she watching you from the inside of your own head?

Is this your crazy, or hers?

All you know

Is that you’ve been struck by lightning

And really wouldn’t mind

If it struck again.