She Tries To Explain
then sees
her
hands are muddy. I'm restless,
she says
and he pushes
his hand
up under
her skirt
and proves
that every action
has an equal
opposite
reaction,
and she
moves away. I'm restless she says
and he tries to
hold her; when his stroking turns
to torpor and his eyes
close, she says no, and walks
to the
window; watches geese
fly in formation
and their order soothes. In the middle
of dinner, she stops
eating.
Draws light
circles on the linens with her fork,
and he comes around
her chair
and touches her where her skin is bare
on arms, up into hair,
and she looks through
him as he memorizes her skin until she
sighs, stands up and begins
to see
him
in the way
he watches their next door
neighbor
hanging
her husband's shirts: her stretch, her bend
plays
him like a chord
and leaves
her feeling
like a sack of feed, so she walks out the door
and rides a bus
to the
museum. Has a
conversation
with a blind man who throws
pots.
He listens
to her voice, describes
the feel of clay, the way his hands just follow air
till they meet muddy weight, and understand the shape of the pot
from what is
not
pot and he
separates
the two
quite carefully
until he has
a finished piece-- that makes her laugh, then realize
the way
her eyes crease are a signal: everything is signaling, but not a blink gets
through
her arms,
her mouth, her hair, her sigh, her golden laughter
brings nothing on but words
more words, more wonderful words on wheels
from the blind man throwing pots because
it makes her laugh, and suddenly, more than anything, she wants to
dance for him.
