his long legs (poem)
September 08, 2007
HIS LONG LEGS
can carry him far,
and I’ve never known him
not to be on the run from something—
a woman, a sadness, a responsibility,
a task that requires more of him than simply being present.
He is an Aquarius, and must be forgiven.
He is water in cupped hands,
slipping through blue stones in a zen garden
on my mantle.
He is an impossible fish: slippery, adaptable.
He is soft-spoken like jazz
creeping into a room on a mission to seduce
every little blond virgin in sight.
I am neither blond nor a virgin.
Certainly not little.
I take up too much space and have too much to say.
I’ll try to snap him down in a photo album
the way a man mounts a deer head on his living room wall
and stands there smiling, swollen with pride.
When he washes out with the tide,
there is no telling how many hours I will waste
collecting shells,
building castles,
staring out to sea.
