Author Information
C
Whether the fact that she touched me
Somewhere deep within my soul states more for
Me or for her, I know not. Remember...
Le Mistral blasting up the hill,
Introduction, how do you do, enchanté,
Been long here?...
All understanding starts on the surface.
Her skin, walnut-brown, spoke of sunny days
And tempestuous strength. Her face...cannot
Be contained within a line that does no justice
To the human perfection—or imperfection—or both
Therein.
Most basely? I wanted her. Wanted to
Breathe in her strength, her fears, her self.
Most idealistically? I worshipped
Her as an incarnation of that spectre
Of womanhood.
Mais son esprit...unique, that overused
‘‘Beautiful’’ that can only give you a
Woman in your head. The femme fatale
Perhaps, or la belle dame sans merci...
I want to recraft this in rhyme.
Like so much else, dulled in time.
