1.
At first, she was nothing to me,
nothing I could see.
Then two points collided in secret.
And through some Euclidean miracle,
two points made an indigo line
that floated to the surface of a white window plane,
a handheld compass pointing I knew not where.
2.
Then the line spread out,
and became flat images of white on static:
forehead, nose, chin,
five slight fingers,
a string of pearls,
all burned onto a scroll of paper
that curled in my hand
as I tucked her into a pocket,
folded her between two pages.
3.
Then she took on full dimension:
pressing, expanding, kicking,
until
Now we are twin spheres with one another,
plump and round, orbiting, intersecting,
as close as we will ever be
in the peculiar geometry of our lives.
But now I know, the compass points to a
Given:
She must increase, but I will decrease, someday and too soon,
become a flat photo above the fireplace, veiled by light’s glare,
a flash of insight across her face.
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» IT’S SNOWING! Oh wait, it stopped.
» “If you like art, and you try it, you can’t stop doing it.” –little she-who-is
» Hanukkah begins this Sunday. Enjoy the best comedy piece on the Festival of Lights since Adam Sandler’s Hanukkah song.
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Well, I’m crying.
(o)
Wow.
Wow. Great stuff, as usual.
By the way, I just got my copy of Feminist Anthology, which I am greatly enjoying. I loved your essay!
Once again, you blow me away.
Wow! Just amazing.
What a wonderful poem!
Beautiful