A writer would find it strange to hear the line "I am not as poetic as you are."
Sitting across the table is a nice man she has grown to like, and has made her feelings known; and he says to her "I am not as poetic as you are."
"Rubbish," she wants to say to him, "Poetry does not begin with me. I am not the poetry."
She turns to the mirror on the wall next to the table, briefly tempted to put the chopstick in her hair and she catches the eye of her poem in the reflection.
"The poetry is in the mirror," she wants to tell him "I examine every hair on your head, every pore of your skin in secret, in the mirror- when I think you are not looking and my heart is not racing. I examine where your hand is on the table, and the button on your cuff. I wonder if it will reach out to mine and hold it. I dare not look at it directly because the blood will rush to my face and the silliness of my hammering heart will be given away. I look up slowly and look at you quietly looking at me- that steady equanimity of your face warms my insides. When we finish our meal and rise to leave, you will hold me in your arms. Then I shall see us in the mirror, my head barely grazing your shoulder, and think to myself 'Look how happy they are. How wonderful they look together!', and then kiss you goodbye.
Poetry, my love, is not inside me. Poetry is in the mirror. Poetry is everywhere.
Now language- language is inside me. And I use it with vixen-like precision to charm the poetry out of the mirror, out of the chopstick and out of the dim lighting above, and let it crawl under your skin until every inch of your body bursts in gooseflesh."
Sitting across the table is a nice man she has grown to like, and has made her feelings known; and he says to her "I am not as poetic as you are."
"Rubbish," she wants to say to him, "Poetry does not begin with me. I am not the poetry."
She turns to the mirror on the wall next to the table, briefly tempted to put the chopstick in her hair and she catches the eye of her poem in the reflection.
"The poetry is in the mirror," she wants to tell him "I examine every hair on your head, every pore of your skin in secret, in the mirror- when I think you are not looking and my heart is not racing. I examine where your hand is on the table, and the button on your cuff. I wonder if it will reach out to mine and hold it. I dare not look at it directly because the blood will rush to my face and the silliness of my hammering heart will be given away. I look up slowly and look at you quietly looking at me- that steady equanimity of your face warms my insides. When we finish our meal and rise to leave, you will hold me in your arms. Then I shall see us in the mirror, my head barely grazing your shoulder, and think to myself 'Look how happy they are. How wonderful they look together!', and then kiss you goodbye.
Poetry, my love, is not inside me. Poetry is in the mirror. Poetry is everywhere.
Now language- language is inside me. And I use it with vixen-like precision to charm the poetry out of the mirror, out of the chopstick and out of the dim lighting above, and let it crawl under your skin until every inch of your body bursts in gooseflesh."
I love this one!
ReplyDeleteThank you very much! How did you find my blog, may I ask?
Delete