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A Reflected Woman
I don’t have a blueprint,
just this smudged version
of what she would look like,
an impression in a shop windowpane,
as the light catches her in mid-thought.
To recreate, I must fillet an idea until
it is just a blood surge, and a milky image of smoke;
I must work on her from the inside,
teasing out strands of mutual desire
from slim neck bones
and a tidal whelm.
My hands are palms outward and kneading;
a kind of questioning masturbation -
that is the gentlest way
to daub such imaginings into prayer.
Maybe I could chafe that conceit, like fresh
Virginia leaf between my fingers,
dunk her in a glass of Folonari Valpolicella
then place the wad between my gums,
chawing on it until she takes shape in my mouth.
No need to ever take her out,
she will disappear soon enough
into a space reserved only
for dwindling stars.
Perhaps she will suicide
into her own a wind-blown gawkish appearance.
The sculptor in me leaves a fatal wink in this ideal,
one that will metamorphose into something
too fair for my skin-leaching hands,
too transient for her still-life.
Then, when all is said and done,
she will simply remain this poem,
an ongoing motif,
that will surprise me again and again,
as I glimpse her once more
through a forever blurred window.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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