I. Knotted
A strand of leather, narrow as
a bootlace, traced her wrist.
Knotted twice, it rested easily
there, an old story.
The wind had blown hard all
morning, the day she came
up to town. Still, bits
of clearer air clung to her sweater, like hay.
The sky is immense,
even downtown, but her eyes
brought something indefinable
that openness, not just sky,
perhaps mesa. I'd never seen
the place she comes from, so
couldnt really say.
Something in her gestures was
deferential, surrender which
preceded confrontation. I
wanted to ask about her bracelet,
but a silence around it
stopped me.
Her eyes confessed,
slid away, or simply were not
there when I sought them.
She told me I have beautiful
hands, which is true. Later,
she mentioned it again. Square,
she called them, and powerful.
Perhaps it was my eyes that
slid away or melted.
She placed herself in relation to
me, when we sat in the garden, but still
she did not seem to seek my eyes.
I wondered what she wanted from
my square hands. I wondered
what she had in mind.
© Jo Rebeka, 1990
