GUESS

I could not guess who it was
creeping up behind and playfully covering my eyes.
Stranger, your palms were warm as life
which is not to say real,but a nonfictional narration
written in some fallible prose, fallible in the sense
that we are human, that we mistake. Blind,
I could not guess. The hands were soft
they smelled like my mother's deep purse
always empty, or like a basket of copper hinges.
The hands were connected with a voice
and a burrowing face hidden at my nape
to prevent discovery. A game. Guess who, I could not.
Just sat there and endured the absurd pose.
And though I did not know her, she was gentle.
My legs tightened. I forgot the loneliness.
Therefore, I could excuse all the madness that comes
through coffeehouse doors in a city far away from my lover.
I could forgive because what touches me relieves knowing
and forgetting, knowing and forgetting, and reinventing.
I could forgive indifference itself, I'm sorry-I did not know you
she said, I thought you were someone else. Her hands
settled around me excavating my eyes, my mouth
assuring her, I understood what that embarrassment
was about. I have confused many people in my life.
Alone, I have mistaken every evidence myself.

By D.E. Morris


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