by Maria Kintner
If you wanted me to,
I could describe you.
I could scribe and explain,
and people would see you perfectly
in their little mind's eye.
I would never use a color.
Nor follow up with talks of roses, violets
or the ridiculous Moon.
Only that you speak the way
people drip water from their
fingertips in a long shower.
Or how you glare like your focus
is captivated by some feather-floating secret.
But, there is no mystery in your pose;
counting all the pretty eyes in your direction.
Pushing down your chin to accentuate a bony white
clavicle. A brown ribbon of hair tossed easily
behind the graceful curve of nape and ear.
I'm pretty good at this -
this word-painting; emotionally
chain-linking letters. I know how
to put pieces of broken glass
underneath a perfect picture frame.
Deconstructing an image and watching it
squirm away, like worms in soil. Turning
refuse into the makings of something beautiful.
All you have to do is ask.
Author's Note: This still feels unfinished.
Posted on 06/28/2012
Copyright © 2020 Maria Kintner