I once conversed with a woman so difficultly soulful, that even
Her breath smelled like incense. (The kind that monks use to honor
Their deceased gods, calling them back in endless
Effects and seamless attempts.)
That, too, is how she mourned at her dorm room, all alone,
With nothing but fog for company, some times the moon-glow,
Nothing but sorrow to share, and sorrow to impart.
When she sings, she puts all the world’s divides to rest.
All the frostbites burning her insides calm by simple
Clawing at the audience. Closes her tunes into the restless,
Subjugates with a kind of devilish, feverish essence, feminine, and
Graceful, and innocent, and in every way effective and affecting.
I told her she could heal the bilious with her cunning. She refused,
But our looks agreed. Astonished, as to how
This is a parody of untapped talent and unlimited power.
Now, you may ask me what’s wrong with her and I could continue with my worship,
But if you heard how she mumbled, you, too, would delve and start into mumbling,
Praying words no ear could understand, no tongue sophisticated and
Evolved to pronounce, or at least not yet.
I was so unconvinced of how she doubted herself but I don’t think it’s my place
To explain to her things. I’m sure she already knew herself.
Had any stranger ever asked you who you are and what you want to become?
And had you ever answered so truthfully that your nose bled,
For there are no other answers, no other versions
Than the ones rehearsed?
Culminations or strings that reflect a different pool
Sound so ordinary and average, so stunningly lifeless.
And when women find what they love, they fight for it– fight
Even fiercer and scarier
Than most men we do regard.
The lottery of birth swung heavy at her sails, though. Her family, her town, her perks,
Only a handful had seen what I had seen,
And I take it as a cruel miracle
To have been part of a handshake that shouldn’t even be
Writhing in the dark– It was so obvious to me,
Being enamored by a blinding predatory light
That I famished without her voice.
The seagulls still fly by in futile where she stood to feed them.
(The villagers advised her not to do that.)
The world collective doesn’t remember her talents, but I do.
I do. It’s buried in my soul. All her words, the magnifica she worked.
They’re as much skin as skin is to me.
I walk by the eggshell sand alone now, but only some times
Do I not imagine her side-locks flowing and her morning gown
Like a culprit to papacy and hearts like an blossoming
Easter lily ‘mongst the hyacinth fields.
I chased away the kids kicking at her plot ’til I heard one of them
Bring back her composition– like in their own, they decided to live on.
I return there, every four months, to jolly ’round the campfire at half sun,
If only to ‘member how wintry she was that it scared still.