by Margaret Mary Riley

A scar between your
thumb and index finger,
which you touch softly,
like a lover. A flock of hair
which hangs damp,
always, over your eyes
a twisted kind of forelock.
A new bouquet everyday,
a thousand
beaus lined up below your window. A cruel smile,
which is at the corner of your mouth,
behind a kiss.
A twisted foot, your hands
run up and down it
up and down,
bruises litter its too white skin. Grey eyes,
they turn on
a living lamp
when the matador
is nearly gored,
but then steps away, perfectly aligned.

2 thoughts on “You’ve

  1. I think we’re seeing a woman here (“a thousand beaus lined up below your window”) with a “scar” and “bruises,” perhaps from contending with so many men (bulls). Yes, she’s the matador in the perilous game of relationships, who, while she shows her injuries, always “steps away, perfectly aligned” to avoid potentially more painful involvement. Bravo, Ms. Riley! (Is that the word in Spanish too?)

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