Obstruction by Some Other

The irony of a woman invisible to her

keeper, yet studied by the man

 

down the street.  She wraps herself

in scarves and swaddling fabric to hide

 

her tiny frame, heads out for a stroll

of quiet contemplation.  Questions manifest

 

from balmy air: a boulder of answers

forbidden to be asked for is found in her

 

path.  The woman, slight in stature,

with eyes that engulf all things around her,

 

stands at its edge.  Her hand timid with a terrifying

tremble to feel the cold touch of stone.  A reach

 

with shaking fingers.  But the stone is a marble that guides

the hands to embrace.  Then she sits, pulls out her notepad

 

and begins to scratch pen to pad. I have to reach for you

with the resistance of fiber, the viscosity of liquid because my journey

 

is obstructed by these questions that will not move.  Under

all of her hiding, every layer of cashmere and silk

 

peeled away, she has skin smooth as butter.  Slick and soft,

she leans on the cool surface of the object

 

in her path.  She imagines how she’d melt if touched

by the man forbidden from her by the ritual of ceremony.

 

Her skin takes the temperature of the stone she leans on.

She wonders if her name were to appear in ink, does it

 

wash off like smudges on his left hand.  In the waves and bodies

of the surrounding universe there is no wrong, only she worries

 

she’s mistaken.  Using her legs, she pushes all her weight

against the boulder.  No use.  Yet, the pull of her path

 

cannot stay blocked because it’s gravity pulling her in

the direction she’s going.  So she writes more, I feel

 

the infinite meaning of these questions that halt me. 

Every answer is lost.  I am the only dying animal

 

 I know.  My body feels the draw of your lines. 

So far from my reach, yet you’re so close

 

I could reach out to touch you.  I can only embrace

these questions.  I hope you do the same.

 

Sand slides forming scales over her shoulders.

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