She said she was bells; she was bows
tied feverishly into plaited hair. She
had eyes like Nevada. And I had not
enough hair for ribbons.
I told her that there was nothing
between New York and Virginia, and
she smiled, with those limitless eyes
draped so casually between lash and
lash trying not to finger my small
lawn of hair, uneven piedmont of
eyebrow. She said there would never be anything
but the small acorn of moon and the careful
crimson of sunset that knew. Not even
me. Not even her.
Never take the small of a woman's hand
into your fingers, if she does not know
that you are real.
